


Bride Of The Water God

by twistedthicket1



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Romance, Smut, Water Spirit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 04:41:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedthicket1/pseuds/twistedthicket1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes hates watching over Humans. Hates his job, taking care of the little village of Recheinbach. It's all boring. Boring and dull. All he has to do to keep himself busy is let it rain. Banished for years to the outside of his village due to an 'incident', the Water-Spirit dreads the fact that he is to choose a human bride upon his return as well as once again take up his duties. </p><p>John doesn't expect much from his life. He lives in a small village, one that's been in a drought for over a hundred long years. A farmer's boy, the only way his family can expect to make any money is  by selling his sister as a bride to the neighbouring villages. </p><p>What they don't expect, is for John of all people to attract the attentions of a certain Spirit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Festival

**Author's Note:**

> So this is originally based off of a oneshot I did a little while back, called The Water Spirit's Song. Obviously I've changed some details, and there is no need to read the oneshot if you don't want to :)
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and many thanks to neverwhere as always for being a truly wonderful beta! :)

_ _

 

_**The Creation of The World, and How It Came To Be (An Excerpt From “Gods and Goddesses and How to know them” Author Unknown)** _

  _In the beginning, there was no time. Only the stars, undying and constant in the pitch black of space. No night, no day, only orbs of light, only energy, coursing between each and every point of brightness. It was like this forever, stretching endlessly on and on until one day, a star realised what loneliness was. Since stars do not do well alone, and it is not good for them to mourn, the star (who called herself **Viestra** ) decided she did not wish for this blackness. That she longed for something more. So she urged the stars to use their energy, and because they did not wish to see their sister miserable and unhappy, they agreed to create night and day, and rend from the blackness of space a universe which she could call her own. Her sisters and brothers watched on as the little star held her world close to her chest lovingly, and thanked them for their help and kindness. They watched on as she guarded the precious string of pearls that were her planets, how she smiled at the nebulas and galaxies that tattooed her skin. And how she looked to her children, Gods in their own rights, as they created something alive from what had once been only dust._

  _And she saw that it was good._

 

 

 

 

“Jounhin come _on!_ We're going to miss the festivities!” Harry squealed from the other side of the teen's bedroom door, pounding on its wooden surface impatiently as she struggled not to trip in the silken skirts of her elaborate dress. She danced in place, struggling with her hair ribbons self-consciously while hassling her brother to get moving.

 

John could care less. He stood in front of his mirror, scowling at his appearance with distaste.

 

He looked like a farmer's son.

 

Granted he _was_ one, but that wasn't exactly the _point._ Mary wouldn't look _twice_ at him, dressed as he was. Poor clothes, dilapidated hand-me downs. Patched up. The seventeen year-old allowed himself a small grimace, gazing at his reflection bitterly as he sighed through his teeth. He knew it wasn't anyone's fault, the harvest the past couple of years had been depressing at best. It wasn't anyone's _fault_ that his family, like so many others within his village were struggling just to get by.

 

_Still._

 

Fruitlessly, John tried to tuck his shirt into his sash. It did nothing. His sister pounded harder on the door.

 

“ _John!_ Come _On!_ We're going to be late!”

 

“One _second_ Harriet!” John snarled in response, flinging his hands up in the air in exasperation. In the mirror, his reflection mimicked his motions, glinting softly. Still he looked so... ordinary. Even when angry, John, Son of Walter would always be just that. Ordinary.

 

All anger drained from him, yet John's mouth remained a thin line of displeasure. Well, at least _he_ wouldn't be married off to some _Lord_ like his sister would be. The thought did little to cheer him up however, it was simply too cruel to brighten his mood. Guilt filled John for even considering it.

 

Harry's knocking turned silent. He could hear rather than see her somewhat bitter sulk.

With a small sigh of acceptance, John hung his head and turned to open the bedroom door.

 

Harry's expression was mildly unimpressed as she looked at him in the hallway, arms crossed over chest in disapproval. As usual, she looked beautiful. Her white-blonde hair was artfully clipped in glittering combs and ribbons to trail down one side of her neck, her lips blood red and pursed in irritation, sharply contrasting the dark blue of her festival robe.

 

Since she had turned fifteen, John's sister had come under the eye of many a village boy. She had sprouted from her childish, gangly form, and now had not only an attractive appearance, but an impressive will to boot. She had become the target of nearly every eligible suitor within a hundred miles, and had even caught the attention of a few wealthy individuals outside of their village. As a result, her parents used what little money they _did_ garner together to the youngest's benefit, hoping to gain a sizable dowry when she turned sixteen in a few months.

 

Not that John didn't suspect a large part of the money his father gathered wasn't spent on Harry's rather... impulsive habits. More than once he'd heard his sister sneak in late at night, smelling of Flower-Wine and giggling into the neck of her best friend, Clara. It seemed sometimes his sister had naught a care in the world, but John knew that all of that was just a front.

 

He knew it because underneath the veneer of perfection that gestured expectantly in front of him, he could see the bloodshot quality of his sister's eyes. This would be the last Midsummer Festival she would celebrate with her family, possibly within her village. There was a light in her smile that didn't quite reach her eyes as she teased him, tugging on the frayed edge of his decorated sleeve.

 

“The robe's getting a bit small for you, yeah? You've actually grown!”

 

She laughed callously at him, but John found himself no longer annoyed. Instead, he was filled with a strange and heavy sadness. Absently, his fingers found his way to his pocket, where he grasped the polished edge of The Stone.

 

It was a smooth, rounded rock, about the size of a child's fist. The Stone cupped comfortably in John's open palm, the sleek surface almost a part of him for nearly ten years. It was his comfort, his grounding, and as he drew it from his robe, he knew who needed its calming presence.

 

Without a word, John held his Stone out to her, blue eyes as dark as its near-opaque surface. His sister's insults fell silent, and she looked at him with wide eyes. Harry's lips parted in surprise, and her instinctive reaction was to deny it.

 

“No, John. You've had that since-”

 

“Take it.” Her brother murmured softly, cutting her off effectively with a small smile. His eyebrows lowered with a determined expression, and he pushed it into his sister's waiting fingers.

 

“You'll need it after tonight.”

 

John's larger hands curled about Harry's, tucking the Stone's weight against her palm. When he let go and moved away, she inspected The Stone carefully, her face scrunching up slightly as she observed the precious object. “I've never gotten such a close look at it before.”

 

That was true. John didn't often show people his most prized possession. He wasn't quite sure why, only that even having Harry hold it at this moment filled him with a strange and tugging dread. He ignored the feeling, patting his sister lightly on the shoulder. Together, they left the confines of their small home, sandalled feet crunching softly in the yellow, dry grass.

 

“Well, keep it safe for me. You know why I... what it means to me.”

 

His sister looked at him, eyes flashing in knowledge. Her voice was soft and sure, and before they could reach the throngs of village people and become separated, she took the young man's hand and squeezed tightly.

 

“Thank you, John. May the Gods keep you.”

 

It was quite possibly the only goodbye they'd get. John felt his throat tighten, and pulled his younger sister into a tight and crushing embrace. The two of them hugged in the shadows where none could see them, two siblings different as night and day, and yet so similar in the way their cheeks reddened and eyes filled with tears. His voice was thick with emotion.

 

“And you, Harry. And you.”

 

****

High above the village of Recheinbach, a heavy cloud hung at the edge of the gate. It was dark and cumulus, and in an otherwise clear sky, it stood out like a sore thumb, outlined by the silhouette of the sun beginning to set. On first appearance, said cloud didn't seem particularly innocuous. Rather it drifted alone in the sky, brooding and somewhat lonely, despite having two figures seated upon its mist. The two figures held remarkable likeness in the way in which they sat, facing one another from about a foot away with their legs folded. The first man had a carefully- combed shock of ginger-brown hair, his skin as pale as the light blue opulent robe which adorned him. Its fabric was the colour of frost upon a window-pane, his eyes a nearly colourless blue.

 

His voice was apparently neutral as he spoke to the man across from him, leaning on his hands. However, there was a feeling of tension between them not unlike the tightening of a coiled wire.

 

“This childish feud has gone on long enough, brother mine. People have begun to suffer. People _you_ are in charge of.”

 

The other man scowled from under a fringe of thickly curled locks, their deep chocolate colour almost bordering on midnight. His blue-green eyes sparked with annoyance as he leaned back to lounge in his dark blue robe, the silken fabric glistening like the reflection of water on its surface. His posture appeared uncaring, but his lips were taut as he spat venom at his older brother without hesitation.

 

“And just _whose_ fault is it that I have been unable to help these _plebeians_ with their needs?” His icy tone caused the elder brother to sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose. The older sibling's reply held the thin patience of an adult that had been pushed by a bratty child for just a hair longer than was recommended, and his voice crackled dangerously as he spoke.

 

“Sherlock, it was _your fault._ You very nearly killed half the town!”

 

“It was nearly _sixty seven years ago_ Mycroft! And it wasn't my fault that _Mummy_ neglected to tell me that Humans are incapable of swimming for long periods of time!”

 

“It's not _hard_ to figure out, Sherlock! Do you see them growing gills?” Mycroft snapped crisply throwing his hands up in the air in frustration. “Honestly, you're the only God I know of that doesn't bother to do the _reading_ before being assigned to a job-”

 

“ _Spirit_ Mycroft. I got _demoted_ , no thanks to you _._ ”

 

Sherlock hissed fiercely, blue eyes flashing as he turned to glare down at the hateful expanse of the village below him. Its round wall attempted to arch high into the sky, as if to touch his cloud, but the Water-Spirit couldn't help but notice how pitiful its construction was. Really, at the first sign of attack, Recheinbach as well as all of the villages in the East wouldn't stand even a hair's-breath of a chance. Utterly dull. Sherlock's elder brother sighed, and in his hand there materialised a frosted handle, it's curving umbrella spanning crystalline over his head.

 

“Enough of this, I won't have you in a strop. After all today is your _special day_ , I know how long you have been waiting for this moment.”

 

His younger brother's face screwed up in apprehension, and the main point of their original argument came to light once again as he growled.

 

“I may be forced to wed, but I will _not_ be forced to get along with them. The Prophecy-”

 

“Has stated that you are to find the bride who bears the Mark of a stone's kiss.” Mycroft finished for him, eyebrow arching as Sherlock flounced backwards and crossed his arms over his thin chest. He looked like a small child, pouting because he was not allowed any sweets.

 

“The village idiots will sacrifice some poor virgin sod, and I'll be left with some blubbering _imbecile._ ” He muttered petulantly, eyes filling with a sudden desperation. Clenching his jaw tight, Sherlock whirled around to grip his brother's shoulders. His voice was laced with barely-suppressed pleading.

 

“There's still time, you can talk to Mummy, make her see I don't _need_ anyone! Talk to father, have him speak to the council. I've changed, surely they can see that-”

 

The Water-Spirit's voice cut off again, reading the resignation in his brother's stance. The defeatist expression in his eyes. Sherlock's fingers curled against the other man's sleeves, realising that there was no getting out of this decision. His brother offered a soft apology, trying in vain to soothe Sherlock's hopelessness, even if only slightly. He knew from his own experience the feelings Sherlock had coursing through his head, buzzing rabidly and tearing apart his lungs.

 

“Truly brother mine, it may not be as bad as you might imagine. When Greg was first given to me-”

 

But Sherlock turned without another word, leaping off the cloud and caught by another, hidden from view as it sailed impossibly fast towards the Banish Lands. Mycroft sighed at the retreating figure, shaking his head. His ice-blue eyes flared in thought as he looked down at the beaten up village, already prepared for the festivities. The sun was sinking low in the horizon like a great, blinking eye, but no one was sleeping below. The God could taste the excitement in the air, radiating in the streamers that hung from every house, in the colourful robes of children running in the dirt streets, giggling and clutching treats and sweetmeats in their fingers.

 

 _Dorias Festiria Namste._ Roughly translated to _River God Dance._ The people of the East celebrated the Water Gods that protected them, and sacrificed gifts to the specific spirits said to watch over their villages. Tonight, Sherlock would be offered a bride. Just like every year, a traditional practice. It was was considered an honour to the women of the village, if they were chosen to stand in the centre of the town, dressed in lavish robes and wearing the clay face-paint that would offer them up as a gift. No one took it too seriously, at least not any longer. After all, no one in the village had been taken in, well...

 

Near a hundred and two years.

 

Only tonight for the first time, the Water-Spirit would be forced to accept the offering.

 

The thought made Mycroft grip the handle of his umbrella firmly. Well, they would no longer be laughing after tonight. He had endeavored at least to force Sherlock to get used to the idea. It was the price he was forced to pay for his forgiveness.

 

And, Gods knew that the Water-Spirit needed lots of it, for all the trouble he'd caused in his lifetime. Shaking his head, the Frost-God turned, disappearing in a whirl of snow. It fell softly to the ground, momentarily confusing the guards along the wall below, baffled faces looking to the odalisque sun sinking behind the mountains in the distance. As darkness claimed its fingers on the land, fireworks began to pop and spark and illuminate the air in dazzling explosions.

 

To Sherlock, they looked like the practice gunshots to his inevitable execution.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Run, River, Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will likely be edited at a later date! :) However I feel like the wait on this story has been long enough. So. I hope you enjoy! :D

 

 

_**The Story Of The Moon and Sun(An Excerpt From “Gods and Goddesses and How to know them” Author Unknown) ~** _

 

_The star **Viestra** loved her children very much, but amongst them two stood side by side and gained amongst other things her favour and affection. Their names where **Eth** and **Lana** , and because their mother loved them so she gave each of them a ring to celebrate their wedding vows. **Lana's** was made of the purest silver, and her husband's of shimmering gold. And they were assigned the duties of watching over the earth as well as its children, taking turns guarding it both night and day. And from them came the Gods that learned to call Humans and the earth their own. The sun and the moon, a beautiful, silver-haired maiden and a man with eyes that burned gold as flame. And about four times a year they meet in the sky, embracing and either casting out darkness or embracing the night. Their Children would be tasked with guarding the precious world below them, and from the two Gods, four children in particular emerged strong and sure in order to guide mankind. They were: Fire, Earth, Water, and Air._

 

 

The sounds of the festival were a raucous cacophony of voices and music, of footsteps and shrieking children. Like a drumbeat that was near impossible to follow unless you had bee doing it for most of your life. As it was, the Watson siblings moved in the crowds effortlessly, weaving to and fro in order to make their way to the centre of the village. Recheinbach was awash with noise, music thundering from minstrels playing in tandem together, tossing the lines of _Bridigal Oescandras-_ _Water Bride_ back and forth so that their instruments and voices echoed across the centre square.

 

John caught the lines, the noise of it humming in his blood even as his feet carried him forward. It was a melody, a story he'd known since he was a very small boy. It was one of the first tunes he had ever been blessed to hear. A beautiful song, asking the local Water-Spirit for the precious liquid it could provide that the village always so sorely missed.

A prayer for rain.

 

_River run, river run, the trickster God plays in the sky,_

_A child with a smiling face, but when he's sad he cries._

_Tears and tears falling, tumbling to the earth below,_

_Lonely as the storm ends, waiting for his true love..._

 

Harry's blonde hair fought to free itself from its clips as she ran ahead of her brother, eagerly searching through the crowd for hide or hair of her friend Clara. Her lips were pursed in concentration, and she all but vibrated in spot before she spun impatiently and urged John forward.

 

“John! _Must_ you always be a numpty? We're never going to get a good spot if you're being so _slow!_ ”

 

_Run river run, Run river run,_

_Dancing in circles, oh such fun,_

_Eyes to the Moon, her silver hair shining,_

_as she blesses the bride her son shall choose..._

 

Rolling his eyes, John looked around vainly for some hint of Mary. His sister would likely soon find not only her friend but the spiced wine, and John didn't want to be alone for the duration of the festival. Already his patience was beginning to run a little thin with Harriet, his love for his sister slowly being eaten away by his irritation. As much as the Watson siblings loved one another, it was usually a battle between them. Predictably, John soon heard the delighted cry that meant Harry had found her friend. She spun to John, looking at him with round, pleading eyes. A silent request to make himself scarce. He couldn't help but soften at that gaze, acquiescing softly.

 

“Go on, then. Have fun.”

 

His sister's face became veiled with a grin that flashed lightning. Radiating pure and open joy.

“I'll meet you just before midnight for the _Choosing Ceremony,_ I promise!”

 

They both knew it was a lie, still, John agreed. “Yeah, say hi to Clara for me!” He watched as his sister, all but bouncing up and down, chased after a head of dark brown curls and a face dusted with freckles. John hoped in that moment that their father didn't notice the way that his sister's eyes lit up when he saw a glimpse of Clara's tall frame.

 

_Run river run, run river run,_

_Choose a bride, oh mighty one,_

_And let your tears be dried by their hands,_

_and together return the rain so that it may kiss the earth._

 

The tow-headed young man began to lose himself in the press of the brightly-robed people. John almost didn't turn around in time when Harry called “Oh. JOHN!”

He spun just in time to hear his sister scream “CATCH!” as his hands came up instinctively as the stone hurtled towards him. Just before he caught it, the smooth surface of the stone clipped the edge of his brow. He winced, holding its smooth surface in its palms. His growl of “ _Harriet!_ ” was lost in the playful giggles of his sibling's light as air voice.

Despite the blossoming kiss of a bruise forming on his brow, John found himself grinning. Especially when his sister pointed with a huge smile somewhere behind him.

 

When John turned, he caught the silhouette of Mary Morstan looking shyly up at him from the veil of her brightly coloured fan. And though his sister was a headache in both the figurative and apparently literal sense, she _did_ seem to know how to get two people to notice one another. For gently, Mary came forward, blue eyes filled with careful concern, and she asked in a rich voice that made John think the stars were made from the timbre of her speech “Are you all right? That looked like it rather hurt.”

 

The young man could honestly say that in that moment, he'd never felt better. Despite his ragged robe and his now purpling brow, Mary looked at him as if he came from the finest village in all the land just to lay eyes on her. And because it was a festival of love and because it was a festival for people to gain courage, John did a rather brave thing. He found himself gathering his bravery, squaring his shoulders, and holding out his hand, asking Mary wordlessly to be his date.

 

The feel of her finger-tips against his own felt like sparks showering over him.

And though he never had held much belief in the Gods or Spirits, John found himself uttering a silent prayer of thanks towards the carving of the goddess of love and chance as Mary linked her silken sleeved arm about his own.

 

_Run river, Run river, run river, run,_

_For your tears of sadness will someday make way for sun,_

_rain tears of joy, bless this land,_

_choose your bride so your loneliness will be banished by love._

 

****

Mummy had always had a rather deplorable softness for Humans. It had irked Sherlock from the very beginning, how she fawned over them and as a result expected _him_ to love them too. He could remember, back when he still bore the title of _Water God_ and held all the power that came with it, sitting cross-legged in her chambers and listening to her prattle on about the events of Humans life below. She'd sit on her favourite deep blue cushion, her servants (usually a young star or perhaps a comet) combing through her shimmering silver-white hair even as she fiddled with the precious jewels in her ears and prepared for her nightly dance in the sky. Sherlock when he felt like it could recall the exact timbre of her rich voice as it would lecture him, could envision the piercing ire in his mother's pale blue eyes as she berated him once again for not understand Human morals and laws.

 

“They're fragile things, Dear One. You can't simply manhandle them into the shape you desire. They're not malleable that way, not like the water which you rule over.” She'd say this even as she'd look at him through the reflection of her ornate, circular mirror, her eyes kind despite the barbs within her words. Sherlock would usually huff at such lectures, crossing his arms over his chest and growling out excuses. However that time, he had glared back at her, his jaw squared as he challenged her with defiance.

 

“Humans mould themselves into images all the time, Mummy. They are ruled by their lives, by their families, even by other Humans. They seem to seek out leadership like sheep. If I can push and pull and shape the sea, surely a few hundred _halfwits_ won't be so hard to control.”

 

His mother had smiled, her grin a slow, curling and sarcastic thing. Many said Sherlock's smile was much the same, though he often had little to smile about. Mummy would sigh in fond annoyance at her youngest son's sheer ridiculousness.

“Only on the surface, dear. The truth of the matter is that Humans often have a point to where they will no longer allow themselves to be pushed. If you were to meet a Human for once, get to know one, you'd likely discover your apt at pushing individuals towards that very limit.”

She'd punctuated her statement with a razor-edged grin, turning towards him as her servant tucked the last pin to hold the elegant braid that interwove with the rest of her hair in place. As she sat across from him, Sherlock was forced to admit it:

 

His Mummy looked every bit as radiant as the moon in which she controlled. Frozen, pallor, untouchable.

Remote.

 

His upper lip curled, and he sneered before her in his own silk robe, hands tucked into the long sleeves where they gripped together in distaste.

 

“ _Dull.”_

 

He'd spat at her, eyes flat and remote, and he'd turned away and looked out the window, watching the stars twinkle and shine in the dark.

He never saw how his mother's eyes for a moment had turned clouded with sadness.

 

Her voice held in it the promise of a prophet as she whispered to the reflection of her dear, dear son, so often misunderstood. As unreadable as a typhoon.

“One day, you will meet a Human that will make you wonder how you ever thought something so terribly wrong.”

 

It wouldn't be until years later, that Sherlock would think he'd understood who she'd meant.

But it wouldn't be until after nearly a decade later that he'd realise that no, the Water-Spirit had never truly understood his Mother's words at all.

 

****

 

Sherlock thought the whole festival utterly ridiculous. A day to celebrate pedestrian things, and to beg him arbitrarily again and again for something he would not be able to give until this night was over. At this rate, he was just irritated enough that he might even consider not _bothering_ to let it rain, as he was currently watching a group of children pull and tug on a doll made supposedly to his likeness. They were giggling and fiddling with the straw arms of the doll, dressing his robe with coloured stone necklaces as they crouched in the dirty street. The leader of the small group, an imperious looking little girl with a smattering of freckles across her nose and a dark red robe and white sash, was pretending to be the mysterious and aloof _River Spirit_ as the children around her played humble villagers.

 

“Please oh River God! Come down from your sulky cloud and bring water to our little village!” One boy cried dramatically, falling to his knees and getting his robe dirty as he knelt and pretended to pray to the girl and her doll. Another girl, this one with dark brown hair and a rather pink nose and cheeks copied him, kneeling in the dirt and giggling.

 

“Yes River God! Water our crops and marry your beautiful bride! She waits for you tonight!”

 

 _Spirit._ Sherlock thought spitefully, crossing his arms and rolling his eyes. They made him sound like a tyrant, not that he could admittedly find fault with their assessment of him. Humans tended to exaggerate tales at the best of times, and the one time he had unleashed his wrath on the village, it had brought chaos the likes of which this generation of villager had never seen.

 

The girl in the red robe pretended to glower imperiously down at her subjects, waving the straw doll before her like a talisman and speaking in a thundering, angry voice.

“ _Silence,_ fools! I am the Water-Spirit, and I control the rain and the storm! Fear me and learn your place! Or I'll drown your children and bring drought to your crops!”

 

It was telling enough that the children around her cowered like scared lemmings, shrieking and clawing at the ground as if the girl before them were some kind of demon. One boy cowered, holding his hands up in the air as if in defence. His groaned in mock-terror.

 

“ _Ah!_ No! All of my livestock!” and proceeded to dramatically die on the ground, much to the other kid's delight. They all burst into collective giggles, not even noticing the clouds gradually gathering dark and pregnant in the sky. Grey as stone.

 

Wordlessly, Sherlock sighed and clenched his teeth together. Idiots. All of them.

 

He wouldn't bother drowning the children.

He'd just drown the morons who raised them.

Though Mycroft would undoubtedly complain.

 

The Water-Spirit thought to himself not for the first time that he rather loathed human beings.

 

With this thought came a heavy-handed crack of thunder, and for the first time in months, the people in Recheinbach looked to the sky and shivered in as much hopeful anticipation as unease.

 

****

The wine was indeed spiced and sweet, and it warmed John from his chest to his toes as he leaned back on the flat-topped roof that he and Mary had climbed, overlooking the centre of the village. Below them the people milled about, gathering loosely in a giant concentric ring that staggered itself about the main platform. There, the painted figure of the Water-Spirit stood in wooden glory, looking at once beautiful and mysterious. The figure was all angles, sharp features and a curling, cruel lip. It stood nearly the height of the nearby roofs, menacing as its upturned hands were filled with flowers and other blessing the villagers had scavenged. Shiny coins lined the idol's feet, along with beaded necklaces and bright, shimmering paper lanterns. They looked like burning candles from where the couple sat, surrounded by sweets and an aura of cheer.

 

Mary had admitted to him even as he'd helped her get a good grip on the stonework that they'd scaled that she had had a crush on him for most of the summer, and the knowledge alone sent most of John's fears and reservations sailing away, only to be replaced by wondering disbelief. The young woman's short-cropped hair glittered like flaxen under the starlight as she explained to him that she'd merely been afraid to tell him, her voice low and earnest even as she'd taken his hands.

 

“I know you're family's trying to marry you and Harriet off to wealthier villages, and what with my small dowry from the orphanage, I didn't think I'd stand a chance.”

 

She murmured to him even as she'd looked up at John's face through the pale fan of her lashes, and the young boy already drunk on wine and more than a little bit overwhelmed found himself foolishly making promises.

 

“I'll talk to my mum and dad. I- I'm sure I can convince them. Once they see....” He trailed off then, and his cheeks turned ruddy in the dark. “Once they see how beautiful you are.”

 

Mary's smile had glowed like the most precious of pearls.

The couple spent the sunset pressed against one another, youth without a care in the world even as below them, the village prepared for the climax to the evening.

 

****

 

John's cheeks were pink from exhilaration, and he smiled as down below the crowd had broken into a rowdy rendition of _Charle Namste, River Dance._ The crowd kicked their feet and spun about their partners like tightly interwoven cogs, and from above it was like watching the slow unfurling of dozens of flower petals spinning off into the distance. The sound of the people's clapping hands created as much rhythm as the drums did, struck by expert minstrels sitting cross-legged on the cobbled ground. The heels of their hands and fingers painted elaborate rhythms that sounded like the tumbling heartbeat of a rabbit at run.

 

Soon, Mary wanted to dance. Though it was too crowded down below, both she and John agreed that they could follow the steps on the rooftop together. Taking her smaller hands in his own, the young man rose to his feet and grinned clumsily, wrapping a hand about her waist. Soon they were twirling, Mary's silken robe clinging to her in a way that made John wish he could merely watch the lines of her skin and taste the curve of her form. The melody was designed to move faster and faster, and soon their spinning turned into little more that tight circles about one another, the movements becoming more and more intimate as again and again they came to meet face-to-face, lips brushing just shy of one another's. John's heart was humming in his chest, and he felt truly flushed all over. In all of his imagination, he could not have imagined a more perfect night.

 

But soon as was every year, the song came to it's final spin as finally ( _finally_ ) great grey clouds rolled into the sky, the moon that once washed out the square below becoming veiled as darkness descended over Recheinbach like a still breath. Like an eerie marionette show, everyone's dancing stopped. All heads turned expectantly towards the platform with the Water-Spirit standing, his palms turned up towards the heavens. Like a shivering whisper, the town chanted under their breaths, the sound like thousands of locusts humming just under the skin.

 

_Bring us rain._

_Bring us rain._

_Grant us life._

 

And from the platform a man clad in the dark brown robe of the clergy stepped onto the platform, and his voice carried out into the silent crowd and echoed like the roar of a lion.

His traditional greeting thundered almost as loudly as the dark clouds overhead, and John recognised him even from this distance. Brother Razkla, Raz for short. He smiled. The temple must have finally thought the young man responsible enough to handle such an event. It seemed like only yesterday the scrappy looking young man had been thieving from his dad's fields. As a kid, John used to throw him ears of corn when his dad wasn't looking.

 

“ _Erastidious Na'haal!”_

 

Raz cried, to which everyone rang out their reply, praising the centre of the celebration, the longing for relief from the dust that clung to the roads, from the heat that sucked the life out of them during the day.

 

“ _Nuun'ca Shal!”_

 

The priest, holding up his hands in a mimicry of the painted portrait behind him, silenced the crowd's thunderous reply with a smile of triumphant glory. His voice held in it warmth and camaraderie. It grew when a few hoots from the audience signalled the clergyman's old friends were dispersed amongst the crowd. His voice was remarkably steady even as he addressed the entire village alone.

 

“Friends, comrades, brothers and sisters. Every year we gather for this blessed rain, make our offerings to the Water-Spirit. Pray for more throughout the year. Tonight, we show him our thanks. Our gratitude.” The priest turned then, kneeling in front of the wooden statue even as slowly, a line of apprentices to the temple came to his side bearing the incense and sacrificial water. They handed the glittering bowl of liquid into Raz's hands, stepping aside even as the priest lifted his gift to the Water-Spirit, intoning his praise so that the entire village could hear.

 

“Oh great Spirit who guards our walls, who protects Recheinbach and never lets it crumble, we thank you tonight for your patience. For your yearly relief from our drought. Our thirst. In honour of you tonight oh lonely God, we ask of you to accept the only thing we can offer you: A bride.”

 

A crack of lightning pierced the sky, illuminating the darkness with white light that made the little children below gasp and the hair at the back of John's neck prickle. Warily, he found himself looking at the sky, smile slipping from his face even as excitement pounded in his blood. Normally, the clouds didn't look so menacing. He didn't think there had been so much thunder, the years before. However as he looked over to Mary and saw how elated her features were, he tried to ebb the knot of unease growing in his stomach like a coiled serpent. It was rain, rain was _good,_ rain meant crops and riches and _nice things._

 

It didn't stop the mothers down below from wrapping their children slightly closer to their chests, or Raz from kneeling if possible lower towards the ground. His voice carried on bravely, and the villagers watched in rapt attention even as the eligible brides filed their way to centre stage. John felt Mary lean forward and peck his cheek softly before finally she too swept up her skirts to climb back down the stone overhanging, leaping effortlessly to the ground before gracefully heading towards front stage. Her words, whispered in the shell of John's ear alleviated some of his irrational worry.

_You are a good man, John Watson._

 

A line of brightly coloured pins and jewels and robes, each young woman stood, allowed their faces to be painted by the apprentices that came forward with clay bowls filled with earthy reds and blues. Among them, Harriet stood. Her chin was held high, defiant even as her lower lip and chin were striped with a streak of darkest crimson. From where John crouched, he couldn't read her expression. However, the shape of her mouth was curved in a small, grim frown.

 

In that moment, John felt only pity.

 

However, even that melted away as each girl stood in front of the platform, kneeling to the idol and waiting with bated breath for some sign that they were to be selected. For a second everyone forgot that this was merely tradition, a celebration to welcome the floods that filled their land for one night and kissed its hurts. For a moment, the sky trembled heavy with cumulus clouds, heaving and twisting in distress. Brother Raz held the bowl high above his head, uttering a low and humming prayer. The village hummed it back, under their breaths, hardly daring to look into the eyes of the monument that loomed over their heads like a terrible gale.

 

No one expected it when the bowl of water started to glow. A white-bright light that streamed from the priest's fingers and cast out the darkness just as a terrible strike of lightning illuminated the Water-Spirit's statue so that his eyes seemed to pierce the night.

 

And _no one_ could have even _guessed_ that when the glow settled, when the villagers could tear their hands away from their eyes and blink in shock, that they'd find a lone figure clad in silken blue robes standing just outside the ring of brides. He bore the shocking familiarity to the looming statue behind him. John's ears were ringing from the flash of light, he heard the gasps rippling through the crowd like a river shivering from being disturbed by a stone. His wide eyes took in the figure standing calm in stark contrast to the screams and muffled whimpers of the villagers around him, and without thinking he found himself rising to his feet. What he intended to do, he wasn't sure.

But he knew in that moment, that somehow he shouldn't be sitting on a roof when all that he thought of as lies was observing the town square with what could only be described as cool and calculating distaste.

 

Without even sparing a glance at the women behind him, the pale-faced figure's gaze unerringly locked with John's.

Without preamble, Sherlock raised his hand to point towards the roof.

 

His voice held in it the heavy and unyielding rumble of a raging storm. The authority of a God brought to shame. Cruel and callous and utterly, completely, possessive.

 

“ _That one.”_

 

 

 


	3. Sealed With A Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! :3 long time no write for this one! sorry about the wait ^.^ 
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

_**The Birth Of The Four Elements (An Excerpt From “Gods and Goddesses and How to know them” Author Unknown) ~** _

 

_**Eth** and  **Lana** bore many children together, but amongst them four grew into abilities that made them stronger than their brother's and sister's.  **Irenia;** Fire,  **Micchael;** Earth,  **Hudson** ; Wind. But the youngest and the favourite of them was  **Sherlock** ; keeper and controller of Water. All of the elements that were to rule over the planet had unique and stunning abilities, but  **Sherlock** was born with the fire of his father and the brilliance of his mother, and was as wild and reckless as a newborn colt set to run without a lead. He soon shirked his duties to his people, choosing instead to chase after his own desires. The young God soon found himself amongst those of a darker nature, and they sang to him sweet lies and murmured kind things laced with poison. And he believed them, because they came from the lips from the one he trusted most... And in that way, the Water God met his downfall. And his heart, it was lost, locked away. In a silver cage that he never lets anyone see, it is said to be tucked in a place where not even  **Sherlock** may reach it, lest he make the mistake of letting it beat again.  _

 

 

John could hear his mother crying inside the hut, her sounds of distress high and keening. He tried to block the sound out, cover his ears and shut his eyes against the desperation of it, but it seemed to drill itself into his skull like a pounding drumbeat. The movement of his wrists caused the clink of the ceremonial chains binding him to  _ ting  _ loudly in the darkness, and his breath came anew rushed and bordering on hysterical. 

 

His thoughts ran in circles, replaying what had happened, over and over again like a vulture circling a carcass. It haunted him, filled him, and the only sound that escaped his lips was a high-pitched and rather distressed whine as he once again recalled the cold blue eyes that had claimed him with one singular command.

 

_That One._

 

His ears had seemed to  _ ring  _ with the claim, long after the crowd had fallen dead silent and a chill lay thick in the air like a layer of hoar frost blanketing the earth. Caught and frozen like a deer between two cross-hairs, John had stood with his mouth parted slightly in shock, trembling atop the roof that suddenly seemed to sway beneath his very feet. 

 

Beside him, Mary had gone still, eyes wide as she looked at him, her face a depiction of horror mingled with shock that might have been comical if it hadn't been directed at him. As it was, John had barely registered it at the time, his own gaze fixed on the silhouette of the ghostly creature that stood like a wisp before the entire village. 

 

The Water-Spirit looked up at John without hesitation or apology, pale irises seeming to glow as the long stretch of silence carried out. He stood tall and as pale as falling snow, nearly snow-white skin illuminated under the moon that seemed to hang low and heavy and expectant behind him in the blackened sky. Like a silent judge observing its criminals below. Though John couldn't see all that much detail from where he stood, he could see the sinuous way in which the man's robe moved as he pointed at him, like waves coalescing dark blue- almost green. Like the great Mediterranean oceans far off in the East. His voice came again, tinged this time with faint impatience as the silence continued, and with his annoyance the clouds above him rumbled ominously. Lightning flickered in warning.

 

“That one. He is the one I choose to wed.”

 

For a moment longer, no one dared to speak, as if they were all frozen solid in ice that was as thick as it was frigid and cold. Then John heard his sister's desperate shout ting out like a bell, and the enchantment broke as Harry, painted bride, made as if to grab the Water-Spirit and shake him. Like time itself restarted, Raz was suddenly upon her, and over half the village was slowly rippling to life, noise reaching a cacophony of shouted praises and prayers for mercy. John watched in muted horror as the people he had grown up with all slowly fell to their knees, curling themselves on the hard ground and chanting songs of worship and praise that had the hair on the back of his neck rising and gooseflesh rippling across his skin. Like dominoes he watched them, spilling over one another in an effort to show their reverence. The Spirit didn't seem inclined to pay them any mind however. His gaze remained fixedly upon John's face. The young man thought he saw a hint of a frown on the pale figure's features, but from the distance between them, he couldn't be sure.

 

John almost didn't notice that the spot in which he stood above from it all was being slowly infiltrated, a few strong farmhands climbing the wall of the building stealthily, heaving themselves up onto the roof behind John's back. The young man was only alerted the instant Mary screamed his name, and he spun only to have his arms wrenched behind him, the people he had grown up with unwilling to face the wrath of a terrible and mighty force of nature.

 

With their touch, John became unfrozen.

Like a howling wild-dog, he kicked and fought and shouted, trying to rip himself from the hold the two men had on him (and he thought he caught a glimpse of Billamus Murray's dark brown curls from the corner of his eye, and there were Asher's freckled hands grabbing him and holding him down). He scratched and bit wildly, but there was no stopping the village as a mob once they had the mindset to work as one. John was passed to other hands, multiple pairs, and all but dragged by shoulders and ankles alike as he was pushed to the centre of the square. He felt someone strike him as he sunk his teeth into their flesh in a moment's desperation, and the crack of the hit caused him to see stars even as he fell to his side.

 

Eventually, he found himself shoved roughly, kneeling and panting heavily before the tall wraith of a man who hadn't once lost sight of him in the fight to his feet. For a moment, John could only stare at the silver sandals the man wore, hands kneading the ground uselessly as he fought for breath. His heart pounding heavily in his head, and somewhere Harry was shrieking his name.

 

“ _Jounhin?! Jounhin!”_

 

Slowly, John became aware that the being before him had knelt, that pale fingers were turning his chin upwards, their weight as unyielding and undeniable as a storm. The young man found himself face-to-face with an angular, pale man, except he was far from merely a _man._ For no man could look so utterly bored while still maintaining such a regal air, and no man had eyes that were the colour of a tropical pool mingled with shards of reflective ice. John saw himself in those irises, trembling and small, and found himself gaping and speechless. It felt as if those eyes were delving into him, cutting him open, peeling back his skin to expose sinuous flesh and bone and everything John was, everything he ever _could_ be.

 

The cool length of one pointer finger traced the outline of the bruise on his face, and a voice as rich and unreadable as fog smoke from lips that were as strange as they were beautiful.

“The one with the Stone's Kiss.”

 

Then without hesitation or prompting, John found the man's lips pressed to his own. In an unbreakable grip, the Water-Spirit's mouth pressed against his, and John felt with it a rush of energy that blew back his hair and his robes so that they trembled like a small wind had washed through him. With it came a promise that burned into his mind like the words themselves were alive, glowing on the backs of his eyelids like stars.

 

_Let us hope we don't regret this in the end._

 

And next thing he knew, Jounhin son of Walter was falling, falling. Sinking deep into an endless darkness in which he was only held afloat by a pair of pale but strong arms. Bells sounded in his head, clamouring over one another in endless waves even as his vision faded and his eyes slid closed.

Amid them, John heard himself being all but sold, given away like cattle to the slaughter.

 

“I shall return for him in a day's time. Do _not_ let him run.”

 

Then softer, oddly enough tinged with bemusement

“Though really, it'll come as no surprise that he will try.”

 

 

****

John woke in the end bound to a post in the back of Raz's hut, the chains tight and his mouth dry as he blearily peered into the darkness. As he came to, the first thing he was aware of was the pounding in his own skull, as well as the fact that night had come and gone, the sun rising and painting the sky a deep red-pink. The morning chill had turned his robes damp, and John shivered as blearily he tried to recall last night's events with any kind of clarity. The memories like they were dipped in honey came to him slowly, reluctant to come out of the black ocean on unconscious sleep. When they did, the young man's heart began to pound.

 

John jerked, trying to stand in a rush and forgetting that he was being held in place. The chains binding him rattled loudly, pulling taught as he swiftly fell to his knees with a cry. Pain lanced up his shoulder, fiery where it was normally forgotten, and the young man swallowed a low groan as he swayed.

 

The ceremony.

Water glowing.

_The Kiss._

 

_**Gods.** _

 

John didn't count himself to be particularly faithful in his beliefs of the supernatural, but in that moment there was no denying that the man that had appeared in the centre of the village hadn't been Human. The weight of the chains that clinked heavily on his wrists and about his throat attested to that much. As did the burning feeling John felt tingling all over him, like he had tried to kiss a lightning bolt and only just survived. He wouldn't be surprised it his hair was singed, although from the feel of it he wasn't actually physically harmed. Just nauseous, as if his insides had been rearranged. For a moment he had to lean forward, tucking his head between his knees. The feeling that he was going to lose the rich food he had scarfed down during the festival grumbled through him, passing only when he forced himself to breathe deeply.

 

Cursing softly, the John almost thought himself alone as he looked wildly about for some means of escape from his imprisonment. Except that in the next instant, he heard the muffled sound of arguments pooling from inside the hut that he knelt by. The sound of his own mother's tears made John's situation all the more clear to him, and he struggled anew even as he heard his father bark loudly at the priest that was no doubt trying to placate the pair.

 

“ _Jounhin is needed to take care of the farm! He cannot be a Bride to the Water-Spirit, he isn't a woman and he **isn't** for sale!”_

 

 

In another life, John might have argued that selling Harriet hadn't been much nobler, but as it was he was suddenly fiercely grateful that he was a boy. He hoped it would be enough to at the very least buy time, as he thought he saw a discarded soup bone lying underneath Raz's back porch, just out of his reach. Licking his lips nervously, he strained to listen for any sign that he might be interrupted, even as he shuffled forward and prepared to stretch.

 

The priest's voice was soothing, but his tone was laced with nerves as he spoke too quickly, to reassuringly. John could tell the poor man was terrified.

 

“ _Please, Walter. I cannot argue with the will of the Gods any more than you can. The Water-Spirit **himself** has chosen Jounhin, and if we deny him his wishes-”_

 

“ _I am aware of the old days, Raz! More than you are! My grandfather described them. Flooding. Hurricanes. Is drought any better?!? Tell me, when was the last time you had a decent meal that didn't taste like sand?”_

 

Just a little closer. John could feel sweat begin to pool in the hollow of his spine as he crawled awkwardly, chains tugging at his wrists. He could feel the metal trying to rub his skin raw, make him bleed. The young man ignored it in favour of cursing over his shoulder, now pounding steadily with his own heartbeat.

 

It _was_ a soup bone, and it was gloriously sharp on one end. If only he could _reach_ it... He panted, pulling anew so that the post he was tied to creaked painfully.

 

 

“ _Have you ever considered that John's union with the Spirit might cause an **end** to the drought?”_

 

Raz's quiet voice inquired softly, and John froze as his parent's fell silent for too long, the lack of voices causing his chest to constrict painfully even as he halted in his movements. For a second, all John could hear was his own breath, much too fast, much too shallow to bear.

 

Then, his mother's voice spoke. Thick with tears.

 

“ _W-we need him to bring in the crops... H-Harry-”_

 

“ _Is just as strong and capable as her brother, I am sure. I've known both of your children since we were little, and Harriet has never been one to shy away from hard work. The others in the village will help as well...Will likely even be grateful for your sacrifice.”_

 

John felt his throat constrict in panic. No.

_**No.** _

 

He was _not_ becoming a slave to some _God!_

He had to go home!

He had to get back to Mary!

He had to...

He _had_ to!

But it appeared that the decision was out of his hands, as in a moment later, he heard his father hesitantly acquiesce. 

 

_".... A new field of crops for compensation. As well as two new farm-hands. That is our price."_

 

Raz's audible sigh of relief made  John realise that in that moment, he was only worth a field and two strangers. It was strange, how putting that in perspective seemed to align his scattered thoughts into one single-minded point. 

 

_Escape._

 

Gritting his teeth, the young man dug in his heels, straining with his sandalled feet. His big toe _just_ brushed the bone. _A little more... Just a little more..._

 

But just as it looked like John might reach it, a wind that was as powerful as it was chilling tore through the village, scattering leaves and ruffling the young man's robes. John shut his eyes against the dust that threatened to fill them, and when he opened them, the soup bone was gone.

 

 

Sherlock listened with a sort of detached amusement as his betrothed cursed loudly enough to wake most of the street, shouts only breaking way to make room for sobs that didn't sound so much sad as hopelessly, _endlessly_ defeated.

 

Beside him, Mycroft sighed. His breath trailed out in clouded fog, crystals of ice trailing from his frigid lips. In his hand, a frosted pipe sputtered with blue smoke. The Frost-Spirit held it to his lips, pale blue eyes unreadable as he murmured

“For one in such a hopeless situation, your mortal appears to know how to shout.”

 

Sherlock said nothing, but his eyes were filled with something unreadable as upon his cloud he sat, gazing at John below. Something brewed in his features, and Mycroft knew that when it reached its peak, Recheinbach as well as the cities around it would do well to batten down the hatches and take for cover.

 

The question to be was whether it was rage, or something else entirely.

 


	4. Ordinary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand this is kind of where the story's plot "officially" begins :3 Hope you enjoy! ^_^

 

 

 

_**The Birth Of The Four Elements (An Excerpt From “Gods and Goddesses and How to know them” Author Unknown) ~** _

 

_They say the Water-Spirit now lives in a kingdom high in the clouds, a place that can only be reached if one has a heart as pure as the water which flows through the marbled fountains of his empty courtyard. A palace that is as lonely as it is beautiful, made of stone and marble and delicate glass, mosaic tiles only for **Sherlock's** eyes. He lives alone, save for his few servants that accompany him and care for his needs at the behest of his Mother. Children of the Moon, stars that have not yet earned their shining place in the sky. They care for the lonely spirit, though he rarely leaves the comfort of his tower. What is in his tower, that his free to speculation. Some say it holds **Her** picture, others claim it is something far more sinister. And sometimes, if one listens carefully to the rain, it is said you can hear the Water-Spirit's song. His melody crying for the one he lost, never to regain again. _

 

 

 

They bound him in shackles for the ceremony. John spared a brief thought of amusement at how they contrasted sharply with the elaborate robe they made him wear, the silver of the metal cold against the cream white and gold that trailed past his wrists in elegant swirls. The material felt softer than silk, and the young man realised that this gown had been saved from a time the village had been much wealthier, though it showed no signs of wear. It had been well taken care of, all in case of the off chance that the festival brought with it something more than just fireworks and cheer.

 

The thought made John's stomach twist with unease.

 

He had at first viciously fought the villagers that tried to make him presentable for the wedding ceremony, snarling at them not unlike a caged animal, biting any hands that drew near. However they'd soon given up on having him come with them willingly, and after nearly a half day of repeatedly proving that he was stronger than his small size implied, Raz had regretfully instructed four of the men to hold him down. John had struggled on the temple's mosaic floor, pleading and threatening in equal turns even as the priest retreated to the back rooms, returning after a moment with a stone goblet in his hands.

 

He had knelt beside John's head, grasping his chin and forcing his mouth open, holding the cup to the young man's lips. John's pleas cut off as the liquid poured down his throat, heavy and rich and lethargic, vaguely spiced with something that reminded him of peppermint. As it flowed down his throat his limbs began to feel weighted, and clouds hummed dully in his mind as John fell slack, the drug filling him and turning his struggles into little more than weak thrashing. The young man had felt the priest's fingers carding once through his hair soothingly, regretfully, and then John remembered very little. Snippets and blurs. Someone disrobing him, the hot water of a bath. Harry's face briefly, pressing something in his palms until she realised he wasn't really there. Instead her hands tucked it into his belt. John found himself only coming to when the sun was already beginning to set, his wrists already chained and bound to the foot of the statue in the centre of the square.

 

It occurred to him briefly that he had been so drugged that he couldn't even recall his whether or not he had gotten to say goodbye to his family.

 

The sun sinking on the horizon slowly turned everything ablaze with fire, and as the villagers collected together, John looked like a pale ghost, the paint streaking his cheeks and curling down his hands looking like blood. A warrior, tied but standing tall and defiant, his eyes flashing and daring anyone in the crowd to look him in the eye. A moment later, John found someone. Far to the back, Harriet stared up at him. Her friend Clara held her in place, but his sister's eyes were blazing with hatred and outrage, and John returned the gaze unflinchingly, showing the same emotions in his eyes. No one else dared to look at him, and distantly the young man realised that the women especially didn't risk their eyes to stray from the ground.

 

All silently relieved they were not chosen.

But too ashamed that someone in the end still _was._

 

The thought made John want to laugh.

He tried to pretend the sound that came out of him was a bitter chuckle instead of a harsh and muffled scream.

 

As the last dying rays of sunlight disappeared, darkness began to seep grey and paint a blanket over Recheinbach. People drew their cloaks more tightly about them, and unlike the ceremony before there was an aura of unease. The cheer that had once painted the village seemed to grow stale and stagnant, freezing over even as they looked uneasily to the sky, where dark clouds began to form and rumble with menacing promise. John stood tall, even as the wind rocked him, blasted back his hair from his face. His eyes glittered hatred, and in his chest his heart pounded, burned.

 

He vowed not to look down even as Raz came to him, forcing the priest to look him in the eye even as the man's hands dipped into a clay bowl, coming away stained dark blue. On John's head, the priest painted the symbol for virginity and marriage: A half moon.

 

Raz's voice was so soft, John almost thought he didn't hear his apology. The quiet “Be well, John” was lost in the wail of the wind, and lightning crashed, blinding everyone momentarily with white-blue light. When John blinked the spots from his eyes, he was standing before the Water-Spirit, looking at him for the first time as he crouched chained and bound like an animal brought to slaughter. The young man's eyes were wide and terrified, but his chin was clenched in an act of defiance, and though destruction seemed to threaten and tremble in the very air, John's voice was loud and clear. The lines he had been forced to learn branded themselves on his tongue, and though he knew they must be said, he spit them at the unearthly figure's feet as if he were hurling throwing knives.

 

Sherlock had he been less annoyed over the fact that he had to do this in the first place might have regarded the foolish Human with at least something more than scorn.

“I, Jounhin Hamish, son of Walter, am the sacrifice that this village has given to you.”

 

The Spirit's voice rumbled, the same tone that sent shivers through the deathly silence of the crowd. Pale blue eyes glittered from underneath dark curls in clinical detachment, even as the being's words lilted in obliging mirror to John's.

 

“I, Sherlock of the Water, am the Spirit that has claimed you. As Marked by the Stone's Kiss, I should have you as my own.”

 

John flinched as the Spirit then stepped forward, robes rippling sinuously about his form like silken waves, long fingers reaching out so that pale hands cupped his chin, forcing the young man to stand taller. Like he was inspecting goods on a cart, Sherlock's lips parted inquisitively, eyes scanning the mortal's face as if he wasn't quite sure what to make of it. John tried not to shy away, chains shivering minutely with his hands. The Spirit's fingers were like ice against his skin, pressed against the erratic rhythm of his heart. Raz stood behind them, pressingly oblivious to John's heated glare and Sherlock's dead-eyed gaze, continuing the ceremony as if no one could feel the cold that the two men felt for each other, both too proud to look away, neither proud enough to risk the wrath that rebellion of this wedding would bring. His voice carried out to the crowd, his hands still stained with paint but dry as he held out the sacred binding cloth, a strip of red silk. The priest came forward and between the Spirit and the Human, a key in his palm as he unlocked John from his chains, only to bind his wrists tightly in the silk. He then passed the other end onto Sherlock, and much like a leash the Spirit held the silk tie in his hands, signifying ownership. John had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop the curling nausea that hummed low in his throat.

 

“I, Raz of Recheinbach, son of the Temple am here today to witness this ceremony, and contest for the fact that the Water-Spirit has claimed John, son of Walter with love in his heart and a promise to protect. Much like how he cares for the village, he shall provide for his bride.”

 

In the silence, John's snort of contempt was audible. Out of the corner of his eye the young man saw Raz pale slightly, hurrying on. John did not know what to make of the look Sherlock gave him, but he was surprised to see it wasn't one of anger. Rather, it looked almost like something akin to surprise. However before he could decipher it the Spirit's expression was icy and blank, and the young man found that Raz was pressing a golden cup into Sherlock's hands. John found himself swallowing compulsively, eyeing the wine that filled the goblet and finally feeling nerves overtake him. The drink would be drugged, no doubt. No one expected him to honestly hold still long enough for the Spirit to complete what would inevitably come once the vows would be complete, alone in the isolation of his home. As if he could sense the elevation of his heart, Sherlock looked at John, in his eyes something that might have been understanding, although it was too cool for anything as tedious as pity. Bravery finally leaving him, John resisted the gentle tug the Spirit gave on the sash binding his hands, but it was like trying to resist a gale. Without mercy, John was inexorably pulled forward, until the Spirit was tilting the cup to his lips, pressing it against his chin. The heavy spices in the wine made John feel dizzy, and he fought a moment longer, desperation leaking into him as he broke from his stoicism and looked up at Sherlock, eyes wild.

 

His plea was soft and broken, and John thought he heard Harry shout in the back of the crowd, being all but clawed back into place so she wouldn't go running for him.

 

“Please.” John heard himself beg, fear making his throat dry. For what, he didn't know. Couldn't know. He looked up into those starlit eyes, trying to see an ounce of pity, an iota of understanding. He prayed that someone could see how very afraid he was, how unsure. Pressed against Sherlock's chest, he could feel the inhuman cold that lingered in the Spirit. The tightly-coiled muscles underneath his robe held John in place. The young man wondered how it would feel when he was held down by those arms, and bile rose in his stomach and he fought harder, close to tears. But no tears came, because John refused them. He bit down savagely on his tongue, tasting blood but still unable to stop the litany, breathless and barely there of _“Please_ , please, _Please._ ”

 

However, no mercy revealed itself. The wine found itself past John's lips, and a moment later the young man felt his knees give out from under him. The world swayed, streaking together and blurring, and only the arms holding him, scooping him up in an ironic bridal style kept John from losing the tenuous grip he had on the edge.

 

His last thought was for how gently the Spirit cradled him, despite his cold face. And how even though everything else seemed so dry and so arid, when Sherlock moved John swore he could feel rain streaking his face, washing the paint and the blue moon away.

 

 

****

The mortal felt small in his arms, almost tiny. Though he had looked fierce enough even when chained and bound down below, now Sherlock could see that he had essentially been bound to a child, a boy. The shocking youth of his features looked up at him, as in unconsciousness the Spirit held him and used the edge of the ghastly bridal robe to smear away the paint that had covered him. Streaks of riotous red and blue came way, shimmering silver lining it. To Sherlock, it felt like clay between his fingers, ruddy and faintly oiled.

 

He could imagine it would have been uncomfortable to have put on. Sticky, at least. When the last vestiges of it were finally cleared away from the Human's face, the Water-Spirit looked down on John, son of Walter, trying to glean some reason as to why.

 

Why this mortal.

Why this _Human._

 

The more he looked, the less answers he found. There was nothing particularly interesting about the man lying before him, even as he coasted above the world on his cloud. Nothing except for the fact that his face was particularly expressive, if a bit ordinary. The kind of face one would likely forget in a crowd, at least when it was lax with sleep like it was now. Sherlock could imagine the man's scowl, and how he had been able to see that John would not have had any problems attempting to wrap his hands about his throat had he thought he'd stood a chance. The memory of the fire that had lingered in the man's eyes made Sherlock rethink the idea of _forgettable._

No.

That was not the right word.

Not... _ordinary_ either.

 

But whatever Jounhin was, it certainly didn't seem enough for all of the fuss the Prophecy had implied. Sherlock scowled, eyes darkening even as he sighed sharply through his nose.

 

All for nothing, then. This utter chaos.

 

It wasn't even like he would take the boy as a bed slave, not when he had no need for such carnal pleasures. At least, not after tonight, when such things were mandatory to complete the ceremony. No, chances are Jounhin would merely become another unnecessary presence, hating Sherlock as much as he hated mortals but unable to leave, lingering in the marble halls of his palace. A promise to his Mother, and nothing more.

 

Nothing would change, and Sherlock thought that at least he could possibly convince the mortal that he was scary enough that he'd be left on his own to think. Maybe, if the Human proved not to be utterly dull, he could have him be a servant. A companion, of sorts.

 

But even that, the Water-Spirit felt he was pushing for the best. An ideal as opposed to practicality. Chances were after tonight the mortal would wish nothing to do with him.

 

He blinked, not realising that until now he had been running his hands through the Human's flaxen hair. Scowling, Sherlock tucked his hands into his sleeves. A servant.

 

Nothing more.

 

The Water-Spirit had long ago learned his lesson.

 

He would not fall for an illusion of innocence ever again. Not even one so small and yet so remarkably, remarkably bold.

 

With this thought, Sherlock sent out a call, his other servants awaiting him back home. His thoughts were firm and resolved.

 

_**Molly. Prepare the tea.** _

 

A second later, a chirpy voice replied on the breath of the wind. Her voice was an eager acquiescence. 

 

_Yes, my Lord._

 


	5. The Stone Woman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is short.... apologies ^.^''

 

 

 

 

_**The Water God's Banishment (An Excerpt From “Gods and Goddesses and How to know them” Author Unknown) ~** _

 

_It is said that **Sherlock** swore to never give his heart away again, and in doing so he plucked it from his own chest, hiding it deep in the darkness of his own mind so that none may find it. The very walls of his palace echo with its thumping rhythm, and the water that is cool and sweet that flows from his fountain will occasionally churn red. If one looks too long into the fountain's depths, it is said they will see what they desire most in all the world. Whether or not it will soothe them or torture their soul, well one must look into their darkest thoughts, and wonder just what it is they really wish for._

 

 

 

Harry had forgotten to close the window again. John's first thought was to the light blinding him, shining so brightly that even with his eyes closed it burned. He winced at its intrusion, slowly coming back to himself, rising from a blackness that seemed endless and deep and somehow strange. Not quite like sleep. Something far softer and yet more clingy, pulling at him even as he wrestled to feel his limbs again, clench his hands in unfamiliar sheets and breathe. Like swimming in dark and unfamiliar waves, he thought he caught glittering slivers of moonlight, slipping and sliding behind the darkness of his eyes. As he struggled to open them, John realized that the silver slivers were wind-chimes, blowing softly in an errant breeze.

 

It took the young man a second to realise that he didn't own wind-chimes, and that even if he had, they wouldn't be hanging beside gossamer curtains, tugging gently in the breeze on golden curtain rods. It took John a hair's breadth to realise that he was not home.

 

Then, he began to panic.

 

The young man reared up off of his back, fingers clawing into the silken sheets beneath him, shimmering blue like waves of water as his head whipped about, searching for clues as to where he'd been taken. John found memories coming back to him, all hazy and indistinct, but they did not serve to soothe but rather agitate him further, especially as he came to know that he was lying on a bed made for a king.

 

_Harry. Her voice, high and desperate as she'd screamed his name._

 

_Wine, pressed to his lips. But not really drink, more like liquid dream, painting everything hazy and indistinct, drawing clouds over his eyes._

 

_Blue eyes. Pinning him in place more than the drink ever could, elegant fingers pulling him near._

 

_Uttered words, a voice low and pitiless like thunder._

 

Rising to his knees, John made as if to get to his feet, only to feel a sharp tug along one of his ankles. His eyes landed on the silver chain circling his heel, and his mouth fell dry even as his heart began to pound. It was just long enough to encircle him in glittering mockery, pooling to the floor only to be wrapped tightly about the foot of the bed. Gaze flitting wildly about, he took in the room before him, feeling as though he were trapped inside a polished, beautified hell.

 

 

The air smelled of sandalwood and sea. Something fresh and clean, and the theme of it seemed to carry on into the colouring of the furniture, laid out in the spacious room with impeccable organisation. The walls were a soft white, and real, solid oak floor smoothed under John's toes as he sat up, ankles dangling over the edge of the bed. By the head of the bed was a night-stand of sorts, adorned by a water jug and a small basin which John assumed was for washing up. The jug was silver and heavily ornate, whorling patterns catching the eye and threatening to covet it jealously. In much the same way, the mirror standing across the room had similar designs on its edges, sitting above a vanity-type desk made of the same dark wood as the night-stand. Fabrics in the room were either silk or gossamer, and both resembled the cresting waves of an ocean glinting under a tropical sun.

 

It was like sitting in a beach, but John was not soothed by the décor. Not when the chain around his foot felt so heavy, and he came to the knowledge that there was a sun rising, white-gold and brilliant outside. He had been drugged, taken away, _sold_ by everyone he'd ever known and loved. To be chained to a bed like a _sex slave._ John couldn't even pause to acknowledge the fact that he was no longer in his bridal wear, but rather a soft navy robe. He was too consumed with panic, and the fear only increased as there was a rather timid knock on the door to the far end of the room.

A bride. 

He was a sick, twisted mockery of a bride. 

 

The young man only had a moment to pray it wasn't who he thought it was before he was confronted with a stranger, not the Water-Spirit at all but rather an unknown woman. She stood for a moment in the doorway despite the fact that there was no way John could arguably refuse her presence, dark hair hiding a pale, heart-shaped face and darker brown eyes. She was dressed in a light pink dress, the likes of which was made in a style that was not from John's side of the world. Rather, it was a dress that spoke of Eastern countries far off, with the way it laced at the back, and how bodice and skirt were clearly defined by its cinched in waist. It was a soft, light pink.

 

She introduced herself with a small curtsy, coming to stand before John after a moment in which she stared at him fixedly, seeming to take in his presence as much as he was taking in hers.

“It is good to see you're awake my Lord. Allow me to introduce myself, I'm Molly and I've been instructed to care for you.” She tried for a smile then, attempting at friendliness and light-hearted joy. John did not return the smile, glaring at her silently. He sat on the bed a stone statue, mute and defiant in his refusal to save face. After a moment, the young woman's smile shrank away, and her dark eyes softened with something indefinable as she folded her hands in front of her waist.

 

“Master Sherlock is out currently, but he's told me to treat you as I would him in his absence. You must be hungry from your travels, would you care for anything? Tea perhaps if nothing else?”

 

“Where am I?”

 

The question came from John's mouth automatically, and his hands tightened into fists on his knees even as he neutrally flicked his gaze to the floor. He had no idea who this “Molly” was, and it wouldn't surprise him to know that she was also instructed to “watch him” should he be rude or harbour plans of escape. Already his thoughts were humming with ideas for evacuation, and vaguely he wondered if the bolt about his leg was magically enforced. If it was just a simple lock pick, he might stand a chance.

 

Molly startled at the sound of his voice- clearly she hadn't expected him to speak. Her pale face coloured slightly at the squeak of surprise that left her lips, but she hastily pressed on, a slight stutter taking over her words as she quickly tried to ease John's fears.

 

“T-the Master's chambers, when he feels like sleeping. East wing of the Palace. A-as for where you are in a wider sense...” She trailed off, biting her lip as if the information might wound John physically. Finally, she spoke.

“The Water Kingdom. The Master's Mind-Palace.”

 

And John felt a shiver of dread lick up his spine at those simple words.

 

****

Sherlock stood staring at his own reflection upon the water's surface, unblinking eyes regarding himself coolly, mirrors twin in length and scorn gazing at one another. The fountain was the only thing that dispelled the illusion of his double, cold water trickling from the stone statue's cupped hands and sending rippling pools across high cheekbones and darkly curling hair. Sherlock did not look up at the sculpture seeming to kneel above him with a guarded protectiveness, did not look at the marble woman's eyes, nor at how they wept water into outstretched palms that seemed to be reaching imploringly, begging. Instead he kept his gaze trained in the wider basin, his voice a soft breath as he murmured

“Show me.”

 

Before him, his reflection slowly dissolved, taking another's shape. Red lips, light blue eyes gazing up at him from a frame of curling brown hair. A sharp, wolf-like smile that was still beautiful, despite the hunger within it. For a moment the Water-Spirit merely looked, frozen by the memory before him, by the way her smile glowed.

 

Then, one pale hand outstretched, Sherlock dispelled the reflection, swiping it with one hand so that his fingers came away wet. The coolness of the water was icy shock, and he savoured it for an instant, eyes closed.

 

Then the Water-Spirit turned, walking away from the flagstone courtyard, empty of life and people, as it had been for nigh a hundred years. Always lifeless, stone dead and stone gardens, flowers frozen in time like the woman, crying her eyes out and watching Sherlock as he left with eyes dead and glassy with fear.

Throughout the stone walls, something echoed. The breathless, forgotten sound of a drum. 

 


	6. Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic hasn't been updated in forever and I am sorry ^.^''

 

 

 

_**The Prophecy Of The Water God(An Excerpt From “Gods and Goddesses and How to know them” Author Unknown) ~** _

_**Sherlock** vowed never to love the likes of man again, and with his promise, the earth became dry and arid, cracking to pieces under the strain of the heat and an endless summer with no rain to bring relief. His mother, the moon goddess worried for her Earthly children, her child so distraught by his own mistakes that he did not stop to see the suffering of others that came from his own neglection of his duties. In a bid to cheer her youngest son up, she cast about for a lover, a bride that might appease even **Sherlock’s** finicky tastes. It would take a long time, many a year, the Moon Goddess having to collect the purest stars, the bravest spirits, casting a spell onto an infant, mortal soul. The child destined for **Sherlock** would be touched by a Stone’s Kiss, though the Water-Spirit himself doubted that anyone could convince him that love was anything more than a chemical defect of a losing side._

 

 

 

 

Sherlock came back to his chambers late into the evening, after the mortal sun had sunk low and the stars had come out, his mother decorating the sky with her servants and children, letting them dance in the darkness. In his kingdom he could just make them out, beautiful humanoid figures twirling and tumbling, playing like puppies chasing after a ball.

 He watched them, dark curls soaked through the edges with silver from their light. His eyes were unreadable blue orbs, piercing in the night. He was lost in the depths of his own thoughts, blue robe trailing behind him in long sleeves and train across empty stone corridors. Only the nervous stone guardians, frightful creatures crouched and still on the rafters of the home and on the edges of the reaching walls saw him as he retreated into the shadow of his own roof.

 

The Water-Spirit found Molly resting just outside of his chambers in an ornate chair, her long brown hair free from its usual elaborate ties and hanging loosely in waves down her chest. She was bare-foot and in her nightclothes, but true to Sherlock’s earlier orders she had not left in case their new guest had a need that could be fulfilled. With his approach she stirred, soft brown eyes opening blearily before clearing as she came to realise that she had dozed off. A small flush rose to her cheeks even as she leapt to her feet, bare toes digging against the marble floor.

 

“M’Lord! You’re back.”

 

“As always, your deductions are _scintillating._ ” Sherlock snapped, the thunder of his previous mood making him harsher than he perhaps should have been. He mentally winced as Molly flinched away from his tone, nervously picking at the lace of her sleeve. She hovered uncertainly on the balls of her feet, uncertain of where she should go or if she should curtsy. Though the Water-Spirit had told her multiple times not to bother with such a thing, the young Star has seemed unable to quite break out of the instinct. The Water-Spirit glanced at the closed door to his chambers, steeling himself mentally for whatever image he might find hidden inside. Would his new bride still be awake at this hour, even while far below his village slept peacefully? Would he fight Sherlock’s presence, bare his teeth like he had earlier?

 

The possibility that the boy might beg vaguely rankled the Spirit, the notion sitting wrongly with him. Though his bride had begged when he had been taken from his home, he had been heavily drugged, and it had shown in his movements and the bleary, not-quite-there gaze. Somehow, Sherlock thought that those blue eyes wouldn’t have even watered had he been completely sober. There was a certain kind of steel about the boy, a stockiness despite his diminutive frame.

 

As if hearing some unspoken question, Molly’s nervous titterings filled the silence.

“He was asleep last time I checked, albeit not easily. Poor thing seems prone to dreams, least tonight. He’s not said much of anything since he’s come here, and barely touched any food or drink.”

 

Frowning, Sherlock resisted the annoyance that bloomed in his thoughts. It would not do to have John weaken and die from hunger, and though the immortal beings of Sherlock’s kind didn’t need sustenance very often, humans did not last long without it. His bride was being stubborn, and it was utterly inexcusable, despite the fact that he might be upset. After all, mummy was due to arrive at some point within the mortal week (Spirits and Gods often struggled keeping track of time) and she would be absolutely furious should she find out that Sherlock had been neglecting his duties as a husband.

 

The word husband settled in the Water-Spirit’s gut, heavy like a stone. He ignored it in favour of addressing the issue.

“I’ll break fast with him in the morning. Ask your Star-siblings to make extra for me. Something warm, and some of the sweet bread from the Mortal realm that has honey in it.”

 

Best to start with something familiar to John’s palate, as Sherlock very much doubted the boy would be inclined to try Firebryre bread just yet, or Moonstone wine. Baby steps, like leading a colt to their first true run free of a corral. Molly nodded seriously, her large dark eyes wide and filled with unspoken questions. She hesitated before leaving on her way, teeth snagging uncertainly at the bottom of her lip. Nervously, she glanced up at her Master’s face then away, not having the courage to ask something that might offend.

 

Sherlock sighed through his teeth, rolling his eyes slightly as he forced himself to gentle his tone. His voice was a low murmur, like rumbling waves.

“What is it?”

 “Should I… instruct the servants not to disturb you? During the night, I mean…” Molly tucked a piece of her hair nervously over her right ear, gaze darting to the floor. Her hands were tightened together in knots, white-knuckled on the edges. It took a moment for Sherlock to realise what Molly was implying, and when he did he stiffened ever so slightly.

 

It was after a beat of silence that the Water-Spirit gently inquired “Do you really think me the kind of person to do that to someone, Molly? I am already aware that John will likely be unwilling or even terrified of warming my bed. He’s barely an adult in human perception to begin with, and what’s more he’s been ripped away from all he has ever known to wed a Spirit that he has never before encountered. He may never be ready, and I would not force that upon him if given any other choice.”

 

Molly’s eyes were lowered, and her cheeks flushed with pink shame. Of course, she hadn’t thought Sherlock capable of such a thing, to take someone against their will. Yet she was painfully aware that this was not a normal situation, and that there were time constrictions playing against Sherlock’s at times dubious but true moralities.

 “You will have to though, won’t you? In order to consummate the marriage. You’ll have to.”

 

She watched as the Water-Spirit’s eyes flickered in pained acknowledgement, and as Sherlock’s hands tightened minutely at his sides. His jaw was clenched tightly, and he looked at his demure servant for a long time before answering her question. When he did, his voice was uncharacteristically heavy, tired.

 “I have until the next full moon, when my mother holds her ball. That’s one month, exactly. Plenty of time to… get to know him. To show John that this place… can be if not home, not as bad as he likely believes.”

 “Getting rid of the chain might help… when you’re at least somewhat sure he won’t try to run away.” Molly quipped back nervously, a small grin turning up her features.

 

Neither of them dared to voice the unspoken question, lingering in between them like a gaping wound. That was what would happen if John did not come around, if he didn’t relent in his hatred for Sherlock. It was a question that didn’t need to be answered, for both parties already knew what the response would be.

 

The Water-Spirit thought to himself that John, as little as he knew him, didn’t seem like the type who’d forgive something as awful as that.

 

A part of him whispered that it was a bad sign that his new bride’s opinion of him already _mattered_ at all.

 

****

 

John’s eyes were closed, but he was not currently in the midst of dreams. Instead, he lay curled on the edge of the spacious bed, the chain a heavy weight around his ankle that could not be ignored. The sheets covered it, but he could still feel it chafing against his skin. It was dark in the room, the night sky black save for the number of stars exploding across its surface. When John had looked through the spacious balcony that lead from the room, he hadn’t been able to help but gape. For what he had before only known as specks of silver light were now a veritable _circus_ of acrobats and dancers, spinning and tumbling and falling in place in a seemingly endless and graceful event.

 

The beauty and strangeness of it had left a strange ache in the young man’s heart, a loneliness he couldn’t describe. If even the night sky was different here, then what hope did he have that he might ever catch a glimpse of something to remind him of his humble village so far away?

 

Molly had attempted to comfort him, to engage in conversation, but John had been reluctant to engage, utterly despondent towards the idea of making friends in such a place. Instead, he had found himself cataloguing the layout of the room, searching in vain for some kind of hope, some kind of iota of something recognisable.

 

There had been nothing, and as the evening came upon them with a blood red sunset, John had felt his abdomen tighten with unease. As night fell and even Molly’s chattering drew to an awkward close, John felt himself beginning to sweat as the percolations of his fears took over the forefront of his mind.

 

The Water-Spirit would come to the chambers tonight, Molly had stated as much during one of her panicked chatterings. The very idea made John feel as if he might throw up, though he didn’t have much in his stomach to begin with. Digging his fingers into the satin sheets, his eyes closed even more tightly together as he forced himself to exhale through his teeth. All of his control was leaving him by increments, and replacing it was panic, heaving through his chest tightly like a supercoiled spring. If he was not careful, it would be fit to explode.

As a result, John couldn’t control the flinch that ran through his body as the door opened, and a long shadow spread itself along the lower half of the bed.

 

If he kept his eyes closed, it didn’t exist.

If he pretended to sleep, then maybe, just maybe, it would be believed, and the Water-Spirit wouldn’t come closer, wouldn’t turn John around and press him into the covers, wouldn’t hold him down so that he could part his robes and _touch him-_

 

A quiet exhale, and a spider-long hand reached by John’s leg. The young man held his breath, waiting for force to be used- and was instead confused and more than a little bit perturbed when said hand merely pulled the blankets up higher, tucking them under John’s chin like a parent might do for their child. Then that voice, dangerous as ozone, crackling and yet still so bored, spoke into the quiet.

 

“You are a poor actor, Jouhnhin, son of Walter.”

 

Licking his lips nervously as the jig was so obviously up, John allowed himself to risk opening his eyes and turn. Seated on the precipice of the bed like a wraith, the Water-Spirit seemed to be made of black ocean waves and mediterranean seas, his robes whorling blue shot through with turquoise. It was a beautiful fabric, highlighting the alabaster tone of his skin and tumbling dark curls, but it did not allure John the way it was likely have meant to. Instead, the being’s otherworldly beauty put the young man off, Sherlock seeming as unapproachable as a glacier, and twice as frigid if his expression was anything to go by. Fairy tales from his childhood cropped up in John’s mind, stories of beautiful men and women who lured sailors to their deaths and children into running streams to be smashed up against rocks. The man before him now seemed silhouetted in the supernatural, and island that couldn’t quite be reached. Like he was made of something more ethereal than just mere flesh and bone.

 

The hand however that touched his ankle felt real enough. Warm. John watched, a mixture of confusion and apprehension on his features as the Water-Spirit trailed a hand along the chain binding John to the bed, elegant fingers toying with it as if it were a piece of jewellery. Before the young man could ask what Sherlock’s intentions were, he found that a small clicking noise sounded, and the metal contraption unhinged freely. Immediately, John curled his leg in towards his chest, rubbing circulation back into his foot with a surprised sight of relief. In the starlight his blonde hair was practically white, and small, childish joy at being freed made Sherlock see the boy as even younger. Practically a child. The thought of anyone thinking it was his duty to take that innocence, crush it, was frankly revolting in the Water-Spirit’s mind. He didn’t think its existence would help John particularly in life, true, but he felt uncomfortable when said innocent expression fell away, replacing itself with a kind of expectant fear as the young man looked to him.

 

John’s voice was tentative, cautious and reproachful, and he did not look at Sherlock as he spoke. His voice strove to be even and smoothed, but it cracked on the edges with terror, with the knowledge that he was an animal trapped in the crosshairs of a predator’s weapon.

“I… Th-thank you. For that. Cheers…” His voice trailed off into painful silence, and the Water-Spirit saw how John’s eyes continuously glanced at his large hands, as if he expected Sherlock to strike him. The Water-Spirit shrugged wordlessly in acceptance of the thanks, cool gaze piercing as he turned and placed the chain onto the floor. With a snap of his fingers, the silver links disappeared, and the darkly-curled being turned back around and began to methodically make his place in the bed.

 

John watched on with growing confusion and building tension, biting his lip. This was not what he expected, this silent charade. The Water-Spirit so far had barely glanced at him, touching only to free him of his bonds, and speaking to him only to insult his attempts at feigning sleep. There was no ownership in the man’s gaze, no possessiveness, yet John could feel the weight of the God’s stare when he looked away, and knew he was being observed. Sized up. It made the hair on the back of his neck prickle uncomfortably. Perhaps that was why he felt so inclined to babble like a village fool.

 

“I’m… I’m told that you lot can be… rough. In all of this, I mean. That, is, brutal. You take what you want, and that’s _fine!”_ He reassured in a high voice despite how _not_ fine it was, lest he offend the immortal “It’s all fine, but… I probably won’t make a good… Whatever it is you’re looking for. A bride… a…” **_-Fuck toy-_** “Partner.” John finished with a small wince, hoping he didn’t sound as stupid as he felt. It was all he had left besides attempting to attack a super-powerful Spirit in his own domain, to negotiate. “I… I’ll fight you. and… and I don’t keep quiet when I should and I’ll make your life hell and won’t clean up after you-”

 

Something flickered on the Water-Spirit’s face, but John was far too caught up in his miniature rant to notice. He continued bravely, rather from confidence or desperation.

“-And I can’t do politics for shit, sorry about that. Really I’m a poor choice, you’d probably want someone else for the job. Anyone, really. I mean, if it’s blokes you’re into, I know a few who’d be more than happy to be your bride. Though you might want to tell Raz, as he’s been trying to fob women onto you for years now, the clergy just assume after all…”

Again that facial twitch, and John trailed off as he began to recognise it for what it was. A smile, the first he’d seen on the Water-Spirit’s face. Sherlock was finding John’s pleading _amusing_.

 

And _oh_ , now the blonde felt anger well in him, his teeth clenching in annoyance. It was with more force than he’d intended that he spat his accusations.

“Or go ahead, laugh at me. Not like I’m not in a terrible position, trying to avoid being _raped_ just so the village can be content in the knowledge that their thrice-damned guardian got his rocks off in this shitty fucking _palace_ -”

 

The smile was gone in a flash, and suddenly, John found himself faced with the aggression he had been expected a moment ago. Long hands pinned his wrists above his head with bruising force, a longer body pressing John’s hips into place. The boy struggled, teeth clenched as he bucked and shouted out, attempting to fight as his vision swam red. Sherlock was too strong though, and those thunder-blue and grey eyes had never been so close, so filled with fury as the man leaned forward, into John’s heaving breathing space.

 

The Water-Spirit’s voice was clear. Enunciated. Each vowel was carefully rolled over with grace. He said only a few sentences, but they were heavy with truth.

“I am not going to fuck you. Not now. Or ever. But, you do not disrespect my own domain. I will not be kind, I will be abrasive and frustrating and _rude_ and play instruments at odd hours. I will  _expect_ you to do all other duties as my bride but will  _not_ expect sex without your express consent. You  _will_ carry yourself with respect while in another's presence and you will _not_ be dull and refuse yourself food to punish yourself for a situation you cannot control. Am I _clear?”_

 

John, trembling and sweating, found himself being waited upon for an answer. Sherlock was _close,_ his lips almost brushing his cheek. Those eyes were wide and so very intense. When John could finally gather an answer, it was only to nod once, weakly. With the minute movement of his head, he felt the vice-grip on his wrists loosen, release. A voice was was a deep as the heart of a cave murmured its approval of the young man’s silent understanding.

 

“Good. We may get along just yet.”

 

Then the Water-Spirit rolled onto his side of the bed, and John was left staring up at the ceiling, wondering if he could strangle the man beside him when he’d fallen asleep.

 

“Bad idea, Jounhin.” Sherlock answered the unspoken thought through a yawn in the dark. “As you might have noted, I am stronger than I appear.”

 

Right, then.

No strangling.

  
John still lay awake for much of that night.


	7. The Tapestry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay update ^.^

 

 

_**The Banishment of the Night (An Excerpt From “Gods and Goddesses and How to know them” Author Unknown) ~** _

_The Darkness reigned before all. It lived beyond all things, eternal and unforgiving, broken only by **Viestra's** children. It consumed all in its Path.  **Morlyn** it was called, and it ate its way through the universe, unending and savage.  **Eth** and  **Lana** upon creation at first hid from it, afraid of its power. Yet as they grew so did their abilities, and  **Morlyn** feared that one day they would rise and take his kingdom. So he set a trap for  **Eth,** lurking in a river the sun god had created for his wife's enjoyment. When  **Eth** came to drink, the Darkness sprang, attacking him and trying to drown his soul in black. Yet  **Lana** heard her husband's cries, and her bow and arrows shoot far and long. She struck out at  **Morlyn,** her arrow piercing through even the most evil of matter. To this day,  **Morlyn** still fears the arrows of shooting stars, fleeing from  **Lana's** wrath by hiding in shadows. He bides his time, waiting for a moment to strike out at those that do not allow a light to shine within their own hearts. _

 

John dreamt that night of a cold and remote crystal floor beneath his feet, shining in the dark of a seemingly endless black. The young man first became aware of it by the cold seeping into his bare toes, the hair on his arms breaking out into gooseflesh. His head darted upwards, eyes searching wildly for a trace of his home or Sherlock’s temple. What he found instead was emptiness, vast and deep and endless ahead of him save for a figure in the distance. A shadow, standing alone and tall, though John couldn’t see their face he could tell that they were at least humanoid in form. His dream-like state didn’t question this, and neither did his feet as they carried him forward, step by step towards whatever awaited him. In the silence of his dream John could hear the quake of his own heart in his chest. Somehow he knew that if the shade before him had truly been mortal, he would have been able to hear theirs as well. As he approached, the young man’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he came to see that it was in fact a woman he was walking towards.

 

She was dressed in a silken robe and sash, colours all silvers and cold, cold blues so dark they nearly appeared black. Her hair was snow-white, and it tumbled down her back in a singular braid that seemed to struggle to be contained. Her eyes, when she turned to look kindly upon John were a grey so soft they appeared to be nearly white. He found his feet slowing to a stop before her, the sheer height of the woman forcing John to crane his neck, to look up at the regal and fierce expression upon her face that was at once familiar and yet strange. She spoke, but it was not with her mouth. Rather, it was as if John’s thoughts were at one with hers, and she was speaking directly into the depths of his own mind.

_You’ve wandered very far, my little one. Wandered with so much fear in your heart._

 

John frowned, his brows drawing together in confusion as he looked at the woman. He knew for a fact that he would have remembered had he met someone like this before, or at least been able to recall those milky eyes and hair. As it was, he was ensnared by the stranger’s gaze, unseeing and yet looking at him with such clarity that the young man felt rather exposed.

“I don’t… Do I know you?” John tentatively asked, feeling like he should be polite even if he had no real idea what was going on. The woman before him seemed to radiate a kind of aura, a feeling of power, and it wouldn’t have surprised him if her wrath was something formidable to behold. As it was, he kept an inch of distance between him and her, wary of drawing too near. She smiled down at him, her lips a purple so deep they were nearly blue.

_No, you don’t I’m afraid. At least, not in this lifetime._

 

“I don’t… I don’t follow.” John confessed after a moment, feeling foolish and small, somehow. A part of him whispered that this was abnormal, that what he wasn’t seeing couldn’t possibly be real. That real life did not come up with beautiful women and endless halls of marble in blackened space. As if sensing his unease, the woman held out a hand, her long and pale fingers cool against his cheek. Her voice hummed like chimes in the back of his mind.

_You will… Eventually. All will follow, in time._

 

A flicker, twitching and jolting like the river itself that ran outside the village, then the woman vanished, replaced by a cold-looking man that stood equally tall and somehow more imposing. His skin was ice cold as he drew away, and his eyes were callous and very blue. The hawkish edge of his nose and the bamboo parasol he held over one shoulder made him appear as if he were made of angles. His copper hair was iced back with frost. John lurched backwards, mouth falling open in surprise at the sudden change. The man remained impassive, staring down his own bleak features. His voice was crisp and polished, murmuring in the dark.

 

_**You seem rather pathetic, to be His own.** _

“Who’s? I am no one’s.” John answered in confusion once he regained his composure, swallowing aside his own fear to make way for indignation. He drew himself to his full height, noticing with some annoyance that even so he still found himself looking up. The man’s pale blue robes were luminescent as he moved, and glittering trails of snow lined the long sleeves as he twirled the handle of his parasol thoughtfully. The man’s head tilted to the side in a flat, reptilian way.

_**Oh, but you are. Though he has not yet had you. You are bound to him by The Ribbon of a contractual marriage. And soon, by blood.** _

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.” John stated, feeling a strange anger build within him from somewhere unknown. It was as if there was a blockage, a sliding of knowledge in his mind that made him unable to pinpoint where the anger stemmed from. Still it coursed through him, making him lift his chin defiantly and stand his ground. “I don’t know where I am or who you are, _but I am not owned!”_

_I am not! I am no man’s bed-warmer!_

 

The thought rattled something in John, jerking him to a state of not-quite wakefulness. The image of the man before him seemed to shudder and shake before his eyes. The man before him seemed to frown, rolling his eyes.  

_**This attitude will not help at all… humans, always so held up by common misconceptions. You do not lie with a mere Man, after all.** _

“I won’t be Sherlock’s. You can’t make me sleep with a machine.” The name Sherlock rang in the air, with it the sudden memory of the darkly-curled Spirit. John gasped, seeing the image behind his closed lids. Those cupid-bow lips, that dark glare. The paleness of the man. With the memory the marble halls seemed to fade further, crumbling brick by brick. The dream falling in on itself like a burning sheet of parchment.

_**I could offer you… a significant reward for doing so. That is… for sleeping. With Sherlock of The Water. Loving him. Choosing his ways.** _

__

The words were whispered into the wet darkness, blinding John like a soft piece of silk wrapped about his eyes. He panicked, reeling against the sensation but unable to break free from it. His stomach lurched into his throat, and he felt as if he were tumbling into a freefall. His lips parted in a silent scream of surprise and terror, even as the whispering voice followed him down, down, _down._

_**He hasn’t yet earned your loyalty. But he could…** _

 

When John woke, it was to a cold sweat and an empty bed, the word Never hanging on his lips like the taste of old blood gone stale.

****

John found swiftly that his new home was at once both spacious and completely unlike any other place the simple farmer had seen. Molly seemed to be taking her job as companion to him very seriously, and upon entering his room informed him that he would be free to explore the palace, so long as she was by his side. As she said this she had waved her hand, the silver chain attached to her captive’s ankle dissolving like new snow.

Sherlock was nowhere to be found, his bedside cold, though John could not remember when in the night he had left. Molly offered no explanation to her Lord’s absence, and John didn’t ask. He was determined after his dream especially, not to show interest.

 

Still, he quickly admitted to himself even as he marched down cold stone hallways that the palace was beautiful, in an austere and frightening way. Towering buttresses unfolded to John like a woman’s fan, revealing elaborately carved stonework that glittered with a strange mineral that John could not identify. The entire palace seemed to be made of it, and it went far above the torches that glowed luminescent blue at steady intervals. While John walked down what appeared to be a spiralling staircase, Molly kept up a steady stream of chatter behind him.

“You’ll want breakfast I expect, I can have something be prepared for you at any time you wish m’Lord. Your quarters- Sherlock’s tower- is the west half of the palace, but the east half holds a garden and some outdoor land. You have full access to both, but the North half of the castle is forbidden. No one but our Master goes there.”

“I have no Master.”  John replied with stiff defiance, jaw tightening minutely at Molly’s implication. He could sense her biting her own lip, and the could picture her pale hand tightening in her peach-coloured skirts. Her clothes were so odd, from faraway lands that John couldn’t ever have seen. Made of tightened laces and form-fitting bodices.  He wondered where she called home, if she could even remember any longer. Time moved differently in the God’s realms, Molly’s homeland might very well have died centuries ago.

 

When she spoke, Molly’s voice was small.

“He’s not so bad, you know. Master. He’s… he can be kind.”

“When the mood suits him.” John murmured back, keeping his gaze resolutely forward. He refused to feel sympathy, not for the being that had with one fell swoop stolen his future away. He looked instead to the hallway the staircase lead to, seeing an elaborate and eclectic collection littering the walls. Pausing for a moment, John merely stared, transfixed by what appeared to be a hallway merely of tapestries, all wildly different in both weaving style, fabric, texture and mood. For a moment he found himself absorbed by the one almost directly across from him, its beauty leaving John speechless.

It was a terrible tapestry, in the sense that it was so lifelike John could swear he could hear the anguished being’s screams depicted. It was a thing of shadow, clawing its way as if trying to break free from its fabric-bonds. On a background of blood red its eyes glowed with blue fire, a gaping maw seeming to be open in agony as the being was being struck in half with a silver arrow. In its expression was nothing but hatred.

 

From behind him, Molly spoke, dispelling the quiet with her chirping voice both soft and calm.

“The murder of _**Morlyn,**_ the night. Lana’s silver arrow pierced its heart, and with it came the moon and stars.” Her dark hair seemed to glint in the torchlight as she stepped forward, one arm extending out to stroke the tapestries’ texture. John’s spine felt chills as it made the fabric move, making the beast upon it appear as if it were breathing. “This hallway depicts most of the events that lead to the creation of the earth, as well as the Master’s family. For instance,” Molly then moved slightly, pointing John to the left where another tapestry stood. This one was less terrifying, and John felt a surge of vague recognition in his bones as he looked upon a woman with long, silver hair and pale, pale blue lips. Her eyes, a relic from his forgotten dream were not milky however, but a changeable, piercing glasz. John felt his lips part in surprise, and unthinkingly he blurted out the first words he had dared to speak that day.

“I’ve _seen_ her! The woman from my dream!”

Molly blinked in shock at his outburst, her cheeks colouring a little even as John paled, looking down and away at his shoes. The maidservant twisted her hands together, brows furrowing slightly in confusion even as she asked tentatively

“You’ve met my Mistress before? But… _how?”_

Thankfully, John didn’t have to answer. For in that moment, a rattling gong sounded, and a deep and lazily drawling voice spoke from nowhere and everywhere at once.

 

**_“Molly, Please escort Jounhin to breakfast. It seems that... I have company that would like to meet my bride to be.”_ **

 

****

Sherlock had dreams of his own, though he was not inclined to sleep often. Being the son of the goddess who could travel within people’s sleeping memories meant that most of his dreams lead to a lecture or seven, and truthfully this did not encourage him to rest his transport often.

Sadly, he was not disappointed that first night lying next to John. The Water Spirit woke to a thick fog, the mist and shade of his own inner-workings, a full moon overhead alighting his mother in all of her radiance before him. He could already tell as he saw her that she was unhappy. There was a tightness about her lips, and her hands were clasped tightly before her. Her eyes were milk-white, the colour of one using magic to project themselves. Of course, she could not really be there.

Her voice was just as cutting as always, and she barely gave him time to approach.

“The boy is _terrified_ of you, Sherlock.”

“Yes, fear is generally a human reaction to kidnapping, Mummy.” The Water-Spirit shot back without heat, cool gaze flicking to the vast emptiness before him. These edges of his dreams were always wasteland-like, ever since his affiliations with the Dark. Much like his hardened exterior, the outlands of his own mind had never fully recovered, blackened and charred away to dust and ash. Sherlock watched as Lana drew herself up to her full height, pulling at her long sleeves in agitation even as she stepped forward. Her voice was insistent, and she showed no hesitation in raising one hand to Sherlock’s face, cupping it sternly.

“You listen to me. You mustn’t ruin this. It is your _one_ chance. There will be no others, it took a huge amount of magic just to do this once. To bring your Chosen into existence… _Sherlock_. We dragged him from _nothing._ He is a blot, something new and unique. If you _fail…”_ The weight of her words hung heavy, a boon around the Spirit's neck. 

“Funny. I never _asked_ for you to do this in the first place. You bring John, son of Walter to this existence…if only because you know there comes a time when even Gods die.”

His mother bit her lip as he turned uncaringly away, her eyes burning after him even as Sherlock concentrated, brought forth his instrument into existence. It was a stringed beauty, polished and with a bow that he grasped in one hand. His fingers danced over the neck with reverence, ignoring Lana’s ire. It was easier that way, to ignore her desperation.

 

“Son, _please_. Listen to me. You sit all alone in your tower with only star-children like Molly, or Hudson to speak to. This was how your dabbling with… less pleasurable ilk began. Jounhin is perfect for you, I _made_ him-”

“Which is _precisely_ why he won’t work.” Sherlock snapped back, plucking at a string savagely before playing a tune that was at once heart-wrenchingly sweet as it was sad. He continued to play, even as the mist around them tugged at his robes insistently, demanding he focus on his mother. The Fog has always liked visitors. The Fog was somewhat alive, and wished Sherlock would treat people with more mercy. "He will be injured. Or _die_. Or continue to dislike me!"  _  
_

_Which wouldn't be surprising._ Sherlock thought to himself. His mother as if sensing his thoughts softened, her expression moulding into sympathy. It made Sherlock's hackles rise.  

“He _will._ I know he will.” Lana murmured, she insisted, much in the way she did when she believed beyond all other opinions that she was right. It made Sherlock grit his teeth, and a sour note played out in his annoyance.

“John Watson is _morta_ l.” He hissed “And I despise humans. I learned my lesson long ago not to trust them, more than anything else in this thrice-damned universe you and father created! Yet you thrust him upon me like a wet kitten and expect me to take him when he isn’t even my equal. He is _beneath_ my interest.”

Lana’s expression flashed dangerously, and her voice was deadly soft.

“Do you treat my creations as if they are _lesser?_ Have you no sense of _duty,_ to return the rain? To end this childish drought?!”

 _“Childish?_ You accuse me of being _childish,_ and yet you bring me a boy, not even a man fully grown! He is a child, still barely able to keep himself out of trouble. How in Eth’s name did you expect me to even tolerate any of this? Compared to me, John is a speck. Insignificant. Unneeded.” As he spoke, Sherlock’s voice rose, and thunder crackled ominously in the distance. Those wild curls began to bound and bunch, moved by fingers of wind. Those blue eyes glowed brighter, yet Lana was unphased. Her arms crossed over her chest, the moon shining down on her features as she whispered the truth over her son’s outrage.

“You will not break this Curse _alone_ , Sherlock. You _cannot,_ by its very nature.”

Sherlock’s voice was like steel. Completely unbending. His hands clenched to fists at his side, and he towered over his mother, his voice rolling heavy with the toll of thunder.

“Then maybe, _Mummy,_ I have no wish to. Go back to your party planning and cancel it, because I will _not_ give my heart to some mortal.”

It had been without looking then, that the Water-Spirit had turned away. In the distance, lightning flashed mottled pink, silver, grey. He did not see the quietly hurt expression on his mother's face. 

 

Sherlock had woken with curses on his lips, early in the morning. Jerking upright, the Water-Spirit clutched at the bridge of his nose, grimacing in pain even as outside, clouds flickered with his discontent. It took him a moment to reorient himself, realising that he was back in his chambers, the silken sheets beneath him recognisable. However the warm body beside him, most definitely was not.

 

John lay asleep on his side of the mattress, his hair mussed up at an odd angle and nearly the colour of dishwater with the grey of the clouds blocking even the hint of stars. His eyes were closed, and his breath came slow and sweet. Those blonde lashes fluttered briefly upon Sherlock’s jostled movements, but the human much like a lazy cat seemed to fall almost instantly back to sleep, half-curled up like a pill-bug, facing Sherlock. The Water-Spirit found his rage swiftly dissipating, being replaced instead with a calculating type of curiosity despite himself. He rarely interacted with humans as of late, and John seemed to undefended, so vulnerable with his night shift and the cuff encircling his ankle. The human’s body was totally lax, and his legs were very slightly spread, revealing tanned thighs and the hint of a promise that the soft blonde hair on the man’s legs continued all the way upwards. Sherlock found that the idea was objectively pleasing, if only because then there was continuation to John’s form. A sort of seamlessness.

 

He told himself he only reached out to touch the shell of John’s ear out of scientific curiosity. It was cold, cold to the touch, and the Water-Spirit frowned despite himself. Mortals, they could freeze so easily… Yet why should he care? Still, it would not do for John to go cold overnight, and the Water-Spirit instinctively wrapped the blankets closer about that sleeping body. John didn’t seem to have the instinct to fear him, not like most. This could be a problem. It meant he would be difficult to control. Even now, the young man didn’t seem to hold instinctual terror. John instead curled closer to the Spirit’s touch, a sleepy sound leaving the man’s lips that sounded suspiciously like a mewl of comfort. It was utterly disgusting, how easily it would be in that moment to break him. To take John and not give him a chance to say no. In the right circumstances, the Spirit was fairly sure he could even coerce the young man to enjoy aspects of it (it seemed John would get off on the adrenaline of it at least). Yet the thought sent a lump of coal to settle in his stomach, and Sherlock’s nose crinkled in distaste. His mind whirred on, speculating distantly on the looming future with John. Calculating all that would likely go wrong, so many, so much. There could be no future, and that much everyone seemed to be painfully aware of.

 

Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was guilt that Mummy wouldn’t be made happy, or something else that caused him to whisper out in the darkness of his cold and lonely room “Why _this?”_

 

Nothing answered, and no prophecies or well-wishing glimpses of advice made themselves known as the Water-Spirit continued to stroke the human’s ear in bemusement.

  
If he had known that his brother would pay a call for breakfast, Sherlock might not have decided to leave in that moment to go to the fountain, if only because John would meet Mycroft totally unprepared.


	8. Brotherly Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't updated in so long~~~ ah summer, how lazy you maketh me~~ also I've been in Canada for a while ^_^ 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this next instalment, it was edited by the lovely Tpurr :D

 

 **_Spritelings and Elementals_ ** **(An Excerpt From “Gods and Goddesses and How to know them” Author Unknown) ~**

 _Both the Goddess and the God were for many years free in their affections, roaming their Earth and sharing pleasure with many of their own creations. What was born of these nights of passions were halflings, creatures of neither the Mortal world nor the Immortal. They ranged in both ability and power, and to this day still play an important role in performing the small tasks that keep the world spinning and the seasons changing. Cloud spirits allow cumulous clouds to form, directed once by **Sherlock**_ _yet now roaming free. Frost spirits aid in winter, bringing cold and ice to the land and making sure that no two snowflakes are exactly alike (see page 132 B for a more complete index)._

 

Apparently, eating breakfast with other Immortals meant that John was to be well-dressed and clean. This lead to him being brought to the bathing chambers, a wide pool of water that sat in a cavernous and shadowy alcove. Though it looked like it should have been ice cold as it poured from a waterfall overhead, the water steamed like a bath. John could see it, rising in warm waves overhead only to condense slickly on the overhanging ceiling. Molly had followed him up until the water’s edge faithfully, handing him a basket for his clothes. Her chirping voice echoed in the darkness, explaining to him even as he considered whether or not he had enough dignity left to deny stripping in front of her.

 

“These are the bath chambers; they connect towards the outside of the temple, and the warmth from them comes from underwater steam. I put some soaps and perfumes for you in the basket that I know My Lord is partial to, and by the time you’re done I’ll have sent a robe to you as well.” John didn’t bother asking how she knew his size; Molly’s confidence in her job suggested she merely knew because much like everything in Sherlock’s world, strong magic was afoot. Reluctantly, John had to admit that a part of him felt bad that he was in such a cruel mood when around Molly, because it was evident that she was truly a nice person. The thought left him vaguely unsettled, as John wasn’t even really sure if Molly was human at all. He decided, however, that at a glance, she was far more human than Sherlock would ever be, and as it stood that was enough for John to offer her a small smile even as she bowed once, turning down some corridor to give him privacy in the expanse of the cavern.

 

Left alone, John found himself looking out onto the dark expanse of water, feeling its warmth and remembering that he hadn’t bathed since the ceremonial cleansing he had endured in preparation for coming to Sherlock’s home. He likely still smelled like the heavy herbs Raz has doused him with, and the thought sent something nauseous coursing through John. He made little work of stripping himself, shrugging off his clothes like a snake shedding its skin. His bare feet brushed the water, feeling its warmth and marvelling at it. Living in a village with drought, water was something precious and treasured. The fact that there was so much of it - warmed too - made John’s brain a little bit dizzy. He had never really known what it was like to not be thirsty on some level, and cupping the water in his hands he drank, oblivious to the slightly bitter taste of it and its heat.

 

For once just letting go of his concerns and fears, John allowed himself one small whoop of joy before he dove under the water. The thundering of the falls reverberated in his ears, a rumbling growl that shook and shivered all over his skin. It was the first moment of happiness since his abduction, he thought, in the moment between his next breath and swimming forward. John found power in the water, had done since he was little, and his eyes opened as he looked within the great pool before him, and saw he wasn’t alone.

 

What faced him was a creature that was as impossible as it was lovely. The creature’s eyes were like twin black orbs, deep and reflective in their inquisitive charm. John peered at it with fascination and slight fear, seeing the humanoid top half but disbelieving of the aquatic traits that blended seamlessly with its lower half. Shimmering scales glowed muted shades of blue and green and silver, catching the eye and making John’s vision swim. From the curve of the creature’s breasts John guessed it was a she, though he admitted to himself that there was no real way of knowing in Sherlock’s realm just what was what. Her dark curls fanned out wiry about her head, lips pulled back into a smile that revealed teeth pointed and sharp. The sight should have been frightening, yet John found himself aware of the mischievous glint in her eyes. The word for the creature came to him then, stories of old echoing in his mind: Water Nymph.

 

Lungs burning, John kicked upwards for air, watching as the sinuous flick of the creature’s tail mimicked his upwards ascent. His head breaking water, he heaved in gulps of oxygen. John’s eyes opened to find a dark, playful face peering up at him, dark eyes blinking coquettishly. He stepped back, resisting the urge to stumble and fall back away into the water.

“Who...Who’re you?”

“Brave, asking someone who they are in their own home?”

Her voice was melodious, playful and amused, and her tail, John realised, fanned out to curl around him, gently making waves. His eyes were drawn to her scales without his express consent, dazzling like river stones shimmering under moonlight.

“I was told this was a bath. Do people live in baths here?”

The mermaid laughed, eyes crinkling with delight. She kicked her tail energetically.“Only the creatures that can’t be on land, human.”

 

John had heard of nymphs and their kind, mostly stories from his grandparents about how they once inhabited the rivers and oceans that had once surrounded Reichenbach. Tales of beautiful maidens and men that would bask upon stones in the water and sing strange melodies came to him like the lingering flavour of a long forgotten wine.  It marked his thoughts, and it made John wary of the creature’s hands, delicate but tipped with webbings and predatory claws. It was an homage to her potentially dangerous nature. Though, John supposed if Molly had left him alone in the pool, the mermaids weren’t known for drowning humans.  

“I’m called Sera, to most Sally. You seem a little shy. What’s the matter, afraid of the water?”

Her smile was predatory, coy. John smiled nervously, tentatively taking a step backwards, bumping into the serpentine swish of her tail. Sally’s scales were hypnotic, colours that made his eyes want to cross in and out. He could see the lethality in her, the strength of her upper and lower body.

“Never much liked water. I’m afraid I’m not much used to it, coming from well… Earth.”

Something flickered in those dark orbs, and Sally’s face dipped lower into the water even as she glanced at the large, starburst pattern on John’s shoulder. There was something understanding in that look. She drew away, long tail swishing in the water as mysteriously she murmured “Yes, well… To fear water in this place is to fear Sherlock, and I for one do not blame the man who fears the sea, as well as those who live within it. He is, after all, a monster more frightening even than Nymphs.”

 

He felt a cold chill run up his spine at her words, lingering in his gut. John cocked his head to the side, confusion etched along his features. However, the mermaid seemed unwilling to say any more, and Sally dipped her sinuous body beneath the waves after a moment, leaving John without a goodbye or an explanation to her cryptic response.

 

****

Clothes seemed to magically appear as John finished his cleaning, new ones that were soft and far finer than anything he had ever owned in his life. The robe was the colour of deepest midnight, the sash a blazing gold. On the breast of the robe a circular emblem of crashing waves branded John’s chest, glittering softly in the light of the cavern. John ran his thumb over it thoughtfully, swallowing as he realised it was as good as a label of ownership.

Still he slid it on, if only because he had no other clothes to wear. The fabric was silk, and he tried to ignore the way his own reflection in the pool of water seemed to glare at him as if in accusation. His jaw clenched, John willed away the admission that to a stranger he probably looked the most handsome that he’d ever been in that moment.

 

Molly greeted him in the hallway, her gowns once again changed but equally odd as before. Her skirts were deep violet, her hair held up in elaborate braids that were not a style that the girls in John’s village wore. In fact, the longer John stared, the longer he found himself thinking that Molly was beautiful, but so very strange to him in her clothing. It didn’t help the dreamlike quality of the place, and John once more felt a twisting in his stomach for home. Molly smiled at him, her chipper attitude still working on making him feel at home even amongst the cold walls and her colder master.

“Lord Sherlock is most excited to see you, he’s told me. He hopes that you like honey and nuts, and there are some new foods for you to try. I personally quite like the Daisy-wine.” She babbled excitedly, fawning over John’s clothes briefly by reaching out and touching his sleeve, adjusting his sash. Her efforts were deliberate, a mother attempting to cheer up a disgruntled duckling, and John appreciated her trying even if it wasn’t exactly welcome.

 

His mind was still on Sally, and on his family back home. Both pieces of the puzzle that was his life swam before him, the largest piece appearing as they rounded a corner and John found himself faced with two heavy, open doors. The brassiness of the knockers reflected the colour of blue fire, goblets burning in a macabre sort of atmosphere that made John balk despite himself.

 

Beside him, Molly nudged his shoulder gently. Her smile was small.

“It’s okay, John. I promise, Sherlock… he’s not the one you need to worry about right now.”

It wasn’t exactly a comforting statement, but it lent John something solid to grip onto. Sherlock wasn’t the enemy, at least not compared to whoever else he was meeting. There was someone there, John could see if he craned his neck. Two shadows occupied the space behind the lavish grey and blue curtains, silhouettes speaking to one another in hushed tones. One was recognisable, Sherlock’s wild curls unmistakable. Yet the second was a stranger, angular and yet similar to the Water-Spirit in the lazy lounge of the person’s body. John swallowed, clenching his fist at his side. He had to be strong, now. He wouldn’t fall apart, at least not in front of his captors.

 

Molly had taken to brainwashing in all likelihood to endure Sherlock, but John would stay strong. He would not fight openly, but he would remain alert, looking for an opening. This thought comforted him, and he thought of Mary and his sister, making a silent promise to return to them the first chance he got. Then John’s spine straightened, and he lifted his chin so that Sherlock would not look into him, crack him open like eggshells. He would not be cowed by those eyes, both brilliant and cold. From within the curtains, Sherlock’s body twitched, twisted. An amused, drawling voice spoke out, ushering John forward.

“Ah, there is my betrothed now.”

 

The blonde stepped forward without hesitation, preparing for battle even as behind him Molly held her hands anxiously in her lap and prayed to the Goddess herself that the meeting would go better than she privately expected.

 

****

Mycroft was not a God - not exactly. He stood in the strange in-between, an immortal but not directly related to Sherlock. A result of the Goddesses' years on Earth in which she slept with quite a few Frost Faeries, the elder of the brothers looked at once almost human and yet entirely not. Pale eyes flickered from where he was seated comfortably amongst Sherlock’s silk cushions, nearly colourless yet piercing in their assessment of the smorgasbord lain out between them. Sherlock watched as his brother eyed the sweet cakes with a longing that was characteristic of Mycroft, inwardly smirking as his brother avoided them out of habit. Sugar made the Fae nasty and mean, and despite his elder brother’s disapproval of the recent wedding, the Water-Spirit very much doubted he wished for John to see that side of this world just yet.

 

Mycroft’s hands were instead folded over the handle of the bamboo umbrella he habitually carried, twirling it absently in their wait. Chips of frost shed from it, cooling the ground before vanishing. A show of power, one that the younger of the two ignored as he sipped his wine and wondered again what was taking John so long.  Molly was supposed to have him brought as soon as possible, but evidently that was a flexible command. The Water-Spirit repressed the spark of annoyance that shot through him, his brother’s presence making him tetchy. Mycroft however seemed to notice, his slow smirk mocking even as he casually sipped his tea, honey lemon and starlight whorling in one of Sherlock’s prized pieces of china.

 

“Trouble in paradise already, brother mine?”

“No more trouble than you’re having, _blud.”_ Sherlock replied coolly, his expression giving away nothing. Mycroft set his dish down, unflustered. His frost-fringed lashes fluttered as he peered up at his brother keenly, analysing him in the silence that stretched between their words.

“You will have to take him eventually, best to get it over with. Like ripping off a bandaid, virginal no more. He’ll be angry, yes, but if he is of any intelligence he will come to understand our ways. Human morality does not do in an Immortal world.”

Sherlock thought of John’s glare, of the burning hatred behind it. No, he thought. John wouldn’t forgive, not even if he did grow to like his living arrangements. He’d still hate Sherlock, and the Water-Spirit found it tedious to walk on glass in his own home. He tasted his wine, responding in an indifferent rumble. Politics, to pretend to be uncaring.

“He will learn in time before the next Ball. Rushing things is hasty, and I wish to keep my husband-to-be at least on marginally friendly terms. After all, I’m the one who will have to deal with tantrums if he isn’t feeling cared for. Not to mention how it would upset _Mummy.”_

 

_“Sherlock.”_

Mycroft looked hard at his brother, icy eyes disapproving. His mouth was set in a moue of distaste, even as his hands gripped his cup. Always seeking warmth, and yet his breath was made of cold as he asked in exasperation “Please don’t tell me this is going to be a repeat of your past. You _know_ the way it is - Humans don’t last. Mortality is fragile. Sentiment, fleeting and false. You will soon find on your doorstep all manner of creatures, clamouring to get a look at the human that might bring rain once more onto the land. He cannot be uncouth, or cowardly. He needs to be _groomed_ , to look the part and not _disappoint.”_

“Jounhin won’t disappoint, Mycroft.” Sherlock growled, temper sparking. He set his goblet down, hands folding before his face even as he leaned nearer.

“The fact of the matter is that John will not take kindly to those trying to take advantage of him. He _barely_ accepts that I will in some ways be his sovereign. If he is a match for _me,_ he will prove himself more than capable of dealing with the common drabble of high court.”

“You’re sending him to his execution.” Mycroft’s smile was unkind as he laughed, tossing his head back. He emptied his teacup before setting it down, looking at Sherlock with chastisement. “He will abandon you before the next moon at this rate, if you just plan on throwing him to the wolves. That, baby brother, is the sad part. That you do not even _see_ it.”

 

What Sherlock would have said in retaliation was mercifully left unspoken however, as in the next instant, Molly’s presence prickled over Sherlock’s skin. The Water-Spirit lifted his head, taking the opportunity to call John in. A part of him felt a strange twisting in his gut as the curtains parted to his will, revealing John.

 

He was wearing the outfit Sherlock had chosen, and a distant part of the Water-Spirit admitted to himself that John looked rather stunning in blue. His hair had been washed - polished from dishwater yellow to something sandy and warm. There was a flush in the human’s cheeks, possibly from self-consciousness. Who wouldn’t be self conscious after all, with two Immortal beings staring at them as if they wanted nothing more than to strip him of his skin.

 

Fascinating still, John seemed determined to pretend as if their stares did nothing to him. His chin lifted defiantly, the stocky little human stepped forward, seating himself after a moment on the plush cushions left for him at Sherlock’s side. He sat on his knees, tense for a fight with his jaw locked. John avoided Sherlock’s gaze directly, even as he greeted him.

“‘Lo.” He mumbled softly, eyes kept in his lap. Sherlock responded carefully, sensing not a cowed creature but a dog backed into a corner, ready to snap. There was something dangerous lurking in John’s eyes, flame reignited since its pathetic defeat the night before.

“Hello, John. This is my brother, Mycroft.”

 

The Frosty Immortal offered John the briefest of smiles, eyes dead and flat. He looked at John as if he were a particularly annoying lapdog, seated at his brother’s side. In that gaze, John found something to hate, and his smile was not nice as he inclined his head minutely.

“The pleasure is mine.”

 

Somehow, a part of Sherlock rather gleefully conceded that this breakfast was about to become rather interesting. Even if his brother’s gaze was hard and flat, John’s was unrelenting. So he sipped his wine carefully, glancing at the sweets with an arched eyebrow of consideration. It was without breaking eye-contact that Sherlock offered one of the sweetest pastries to John, taking one for himself with his betrothed’s reluctant acceptance of it. Biting into the honey-sweet dish, he watched Mycroft’s gaze tinge with annoyance.

Yes, Sherlock was going to enjoy this morning.


	9. Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft makes an appearance and both John and Sherlock fuck things up a bit~ 
> 
> Warnings in this chapter for dubious consent that is swiftly cut off almost immediately as it happens tbh. Nothing too bad though. ^.^ Enjoy~

 

**_The Water-God's River_ (An Excerpt From “Gods and Goddesses and How to know them” Author Unknown) ~**

_**Sherlock** chose his own land, and when people came to him asking for water, he at first had no problem bestowing them drink. The people thanked him, and made their land near his river, drinking the cleanest water they had ever tasted and blessing their God with gifts and praises. Both the God and the village thrived, until the Water-God fell for a beautiful maiden of the village. Wanting her for his own, he asked the village to give her to him. Yet she did not love him, and though he tried in vain to impress her with Gifts and pretty compliments, she would not be wooed. Frustrated, **Sherlock** was determined to impress her. He gathered precious jewels, mementos of power. He gave them all to her as a dowry, begging for her to be with him. Seeing the riches, the woman accepted. Yet her words were not honest, and in the back of her mind she hatched a plan, even as she painted on a smile and pretended that yes, she had fallen for the God that only wanted to show her his world and all the things he loved about Earth and its people. (See page 444 part B for more information).   
_

 

 

John sat down stiffly to a veritable feast laid out before him, the likes of which was both colourful and somewhat unrecognisable. His eyes roved over the selection displayed, pastries that he did not know and meats that looked like they came from far away lands from strange animals. There was a tea that smelled a bit like the one Harriet would drink in the morning, and a wine that when Sherlock handed it to him from a silver goblet tasted like cinnamon and something spicier.

He would have truthfully been somewhat interested in the meal, and John’s stomach rumbled despite his anxiety at the mouthwatering smells. If it weren’t for the fact that he was currently seated next to and across from two strange Gods, then he wouldn’t have hesitated at all in diving straight in. As it was his hands curled in his lap, afraid to reach out and have anything under the weighty gaze of those grey and blue eyes both staring at him as if he were an especially entertaining toy. He pictured quite suddenly what it would be like to throttle Sherlock’s pale neck, and the image doesn’t do what John imagined it might. Instead of satisfaction he felt a strange burn, and it crawled up along his neck and to the tips of his ears. Before he could analyse what that meant however for his psyche, John was snapped out of his contemplation of the food by Sherlock’s exasperated sigh.

A spidery hand moved towards the food, loading a little bit of everything onto the ornately decorated place that sat before John. Before he could protest the Water-Spirit spoke, his tone irritated- as if he thought John to be an especially frustrating child under his care. It made the young man’s hackles rise.

“It’s not poisoned and I will not have you staring at it like a kicked puppy even as you play a martyr. _Eat,_ Jounhin.”

John, just to be contrary, reached over to Sherlock’s plate. Selecting a pastry at random, he stuck it in his mouth and chewed. Sweetness exploded across his tongue, a mixture of orange and honey, and he forgot his anger for a moment just to savour the first proper meal he’d had in awhile. Sherlock glared, mildly affronted at John’s audacity even as the human’s eyes fluttered shut in pleasure, opening a moment later even as he swallowed the last of the treat, his adam’s apple bobbing with the motion. He then stubbornly looked away, refusing to speak and keeping up his ongoing campaign of freezing the Water-Spirit with chilly silence. Sherlock shook his head at the rebuttal, muttering something vaguely insulting under his breath.

The other man, the one John hadn’t met yet watched the entire exchange in a reptilian sort of way, his grey eyes flat and at a glance appearing rather bored with the entire affair.

John resisted the urge to stare at the man’s strange physical appearance, not wanting to appear rude or even really friendly to the creature before him that seemed to be made of snow and ice itself. The man’s ginger hair was dusted with snow, and his eyelashes were frost-coated as they blinked, revealing those almost colourless eyes. His bamboo umbrella looked not unlike something a fine woman would carry in his village, save for the tipped ends that looked as sharp as icicles, deadly. As if sensing his shy observation the man shifted, shedding flakes of frost with every movement before offering a rather chilled smile.

“Jounhin, son of Walter, yes? I’m Mycroft, Sherlock’s elder brother.”

“Arch-enemy.” The Water-Spirit corrected the connection lightly, voice rumbling in displeasure. John made as if to awkwardly hold out his hand to shake in meeting-Sherlock’s feelings towards the matter be damned- and instead found The Water-Spirit tugging his arm, pulling it back to his knee.

“I wouldn’t if I were you.” He drawled lazily, blue eyes looking at Mycroft. There was a smirk lingering in the man’s face, cupid’s lips seeming to take pleasure in the opportunity to snub his unwelcome guest. “That is, not unless you want to end up an ice sculpture for his garden.”

“My brother has a flair for dramatics, as I’m sure you’ll quickly discover if you haven’t already. Believe it or not, Sherlock, I’ve outgrown my childhood. I can control that little ability like any adult should be able to. Which is to say, I’m not the one who still makes thunderstorms when they are angry.”

John listened to the sniping exchange between the two brothers cautiously, unsure if he was allowed to smile or laugh. Was one allowed to laugh when a powerful weather spirit was being mocked? He didn’t think so, but then again Sherlock didn’t seem like the type to get overly offended by teasing. No, he’d puff up like a wet cat over wounded pride, but teasing he seemed to endure with little more than a sneer.

“Have you come just to mock me, or to darken the doorstep and interrogate my bride? Because either is frankly unwelcome but if it’s the first then I have no issues with kicking you out. The latter I’m only allowing because you can report back to Mummy, and save her the trip here.”

The idea of Sherlock even having a mother sent a vague sort of horror through John, but he supposed that all things had to have come from something. His knowledge however of the lore of the Water-Spirit’s family was admittedly limited however, as for some time he hadn’t attended the temple. He reached towards the teapot sitting upon the mat before him, pouring himself a cup of the herbal-smelling tea he had noticed before and taking a long sip.

“Mummy?” He inquired politely, only to have Mycroft answer with a facetious smile that did not reach his eyes.  

“The Moon.”

John choked, nearly spilling the hot drink down his front. He coughed for a moment as Sherlock smirked through his scowl, looking unsure whether to be amused by John’s reaction or irritated that Mycroft had caused it.

“Um, right then. Yes.” John finally managed to splutter, regaining his voice and his manners even as his head spun a little. He refused to turn crimson with embarrassment, although he very badly wanted to. Mycroft continued to give him that mile-long stare, unflappably calm as he sipped from a silver and blue goblet. He changed the subject as if he were merely predicting the weather, his head tilting in a rather reptilian way as he swept his slow, searching look over John’s form.

“You do not seem to know much of Godly matters, do you John Watson?”

Hesitantly, John shook his head. Mycroft looked smugly pleased.

“Truthfully,” John murmured “I didn’t really think you lot existed until very recently. In the back of my mind, I knew the stories, and the lore like everyone else in the village, but… well…” He peeked a nervous look at Sherlock then, just out of the corner of his eye. “Our patron Spirit hasn’t… been exactly good at keeping his care up.”

“Might as well not split hairs.” Sherlock snapped, his arms crossing over his chest. He spoke coldly, detached. It was as if he was bored of the whole matter, no, more irritated. “I haven’t made it rain over your village for oh…”

“Over a _hundred years.”_ John finished for him, his teeth clenched now and his fists tightening in his lap.

“Why should I care about the exact number?” The Spirit huffed out a small breath, rolling his eyes at the specificity.

The Spirit’s blase attitude irked John somewhere deep in the cavity of his chest, and his voice was surprisingly accusing as he looked at Sherlock fully, gesturing to the pot of tea that sat before them.

“Do you know what it costs to import water to our village? A basic necessity? Here you are having yourself a nice cuppa, and my Dad last year nearly had to sell the last of our dishware to make ends meet because he couldn’t actually grow crops.”

The Water-Spirit seemed for a moment taken-aback at the Human’s outburst, but his features rapidly reassembled themselves into indignation.

“Humans live, Humans die. What should I care about a village that has for some reason decided to settle under _my_ land?”

“Because we settled here, according to history, due to _your_ generosity.”

“I never asked your people to.” He scowled, shrugging off the responsibility. Mycroft sighed into his goblet, but John wasn’t having it.

“You were once a God, and from what little of the sermons I remember, a pretty fucking benevolent one, if a bit mad. But all I see is the mad bit, sitting here.” John’s upper lip curled in outrage, and he forgot for a moment that he was only a Human, his temper rising to the surface. “All I see is a selfish _child_ now, quite honestly. _You,_ Sherlock Holmes, do not impress me.”

_“Childish?”_ The tone was a danger sign, disbelieving and deadly. Something in those blue eyes flashing. There was a crackling energy about Sherlock, and some of his mask became sharper, less like a flat pond and more like sharp ice just waiting for John to impale himself upon. “You’re accusing me of being childish? Humans are children, running over the Earth, laying waste to it wherever they go. Your kind are nothing but lying, fickle creatures. You wouldn’t understand my actions even if I explained them, with your dull mind.” The words were hateful, and with them came the ominous rumble of thunder out beyond the temple. John didn’t care, the sound exhilarated him, made his blood boil under his skin.

“Having a temper tantrum now?” He retorted snidely, to which the Spirit snarled at him wordlessly. It felt good to hurt, John was itching for a fight and had been since he had come here. He wanted to draw blood, to hit something and make it bleed.  “Don’t like having someone point out your faults? Can’t stand to look at them too closely?”

“You’re _insufferable.”_ Sherlock boomed suddenly, and with it the thunder kicked up a notch, rumbling menacingly. He stood, eyes nearly white-blue from fury. He snarled his words at Mycroft, but they were designed to strike John like a sword between the ribs. The Water-Spirit lifted his goblet suddenly, smashing against the far wall. With the crashing of metal, lightning flashes from behind a curtained window. John could taste electricity at the back of his lips.

 _“This_ is why this will never work. _Everyone,_ all of you are idiots! Go back to Mummy and tell her that her brilliant idea is what we all thought it might be, a spectacular _failure.”_

He turned to John then, and his words were malevolent with promise. John felt his mouth run dry, for the first time regretting his actions as he felt a stone sink into the pit of his stomach.

“Your village will suffer at least a hundred years more before I even consider giving them the barest drop of water. You want childish, John? Fine. I will be childish and cruel. Your village’s destruction will ultimately be your fault.”

“You bastard.” John breathed, struggling to his feet, willing to fall back on his knees if that’s what it took to make Sherlock take back his vow. “That’s not fair, you bloody _bastard_ they’ll _die-”_

_“I don’t care.”_

Another crack of thunder, and this one was filled with a terrible finality. The Water-Spirit spun on his heel, stalking towards the door. His entire posture screamed an end to the conversation, bellowing for Molly to escort his ‘ignorant clod of a brother’ and his betrothed, respectively either out of his temple or to his rooms. The small, mouse-haired servant squeaked past the Spirit while he stalked angrily out, her brown eyes wide with despair as she looked at the pair, now sitting at a meal that had gone mostly cold.

“What happened?” She asked, looking between John and Mycroft as if either of them might provide the answers. John, feeling his heart beating out of his ribs and nauseous, almost didn’t hear Mycroft’s reply. The frost-covered being stood, smoothly adjusting his silken robes to perfection. He tapped his parasol at his feet, and with the action a part of the floor became trellised with a snowflake dusting. His voice was dry.

“It appears as if my brother has fallen into one of his… moods.” Pale eyes flicked to John, and the boy felt clawing panic seize up his throat, picturing only his family in his mind. _God, no… They’ll die of thirst… No._ The elder of the brother as if sensing his thoughts spoke to John then, his tone even. “Rest assured John that if you are to spend any time with my brother, you must become accustomed to his… erratic temperament.” Then, perhaps softer to John’s mind “He does not beg forgiveness, but he does take back vows made in anger.”

“I can’t do this.” John whispered, and he felt as if he wanted to choke on his own breaths. His chest couldn’t seem to take in enough air. He looked wildly to Mycroft then, and in the moment his youth shone through as he stared up at the elder Holmes. “Please,” John croaked _“Please I can’t do this.”_

Mycroft’s voice was deathly quiet, and his answer was at once strangely comforting, and even more terrifying.

“Strange, I thought for a just a moment back there that you _were_ doing it.”

He shook his frost-dusted shoulders then, icy gaze flicking to Molly who still stood by the door, nervously wringing her hands.

“No need to show me out, miss Hooper. Even I can find a door. John,” Mycroft dipped his chin, pale eyes considering the Human before him carefully. His parting words were clipped, but they were not unkind. Though he was expressionless, John imagined he could see the hint of gentility in Mycroft’s features, an inkling of long-suffering understanding. “My brother occasionally needs... someone firm who can shout abuse right back to him. It’s at times, the only way to knock some sense into his thick skull.”

It was then that he left, nodding smartly at Molly before carrying on his way, leaving behind him foggy footprints that soon melted away with the warmth of Sherlock’s Palace. It was only after he left that John remembered that the man had at one point, wandered in his dreams.

****

John sat in that empty room that day curled up and tense, wracking his brains and trying to figure out a way in which he could simultaneously plead Sherlock for forgiveness and yet knee him where it’d count. Between these musings anxiety clawed deep into his very soul, terror over the future of his people and his family leaving him in a loop of panic and sick fury. How could someone be so selfish? So unbelievably cruel in their judgement? Punish him, sure. John had almost expected that, and though it would have been unpleasant he would have coped, somehow. This made him want to scream, to curl his hands into his hair and tug, until bits of short blonde fibers came away with his fingers.

John almost wished the Spirit would come to the chambers, if only so that he could beg for forgiveness. He’d grovel tonight, if he had to. Hell, he’d even make all of this fucking easier and just let the Water-Spirit have him if he wanted. If it could fix this, John would deal somehow. He wasn’t sure when he started sobbing, only that it was accompanied by violence, his hands suddenly coming up to tear at the silken canopy about the bed, tearing it to pieces.

Molly came in just as the crash of one of the many fine vases could be heard, and she gasped at the state of the room, and at John before running over, attempting to stop him. John let loose an inarticulate cry of fury and agony at her touch, wanting to strike out and instead sinking to his knees. The sharp bite of porcelain cut into his skin, but he barely noticed.

He wouldn’t have noticed much, didn’t even notice when Molly fled, calling for the Master in despair. All John could feel was hopelessness, digging hard and deep into the pit of his stomach.

Sherlock came, hearing Molly’s calls after spending nearly an hour at the fountain. What he saw made his brows draw together, an inexplicable emotion tugging at his chest at the sight of John, shaking and crying in a mess of pottery and his own blood.

The Human flinched away from his spidery and hesitant touch, mindlessly lashed out at him before seeming to realise who it was. Upon seeing Sherlock anguish crossed his blue eyes, and he pressed himself automatically against the Spirit’s leg, pressing his face against his thigh and begging numb forgiveness that tasted like ash on John’s tongue.

That… that was a bit not good to Sherlock. The sight in fact made him feel rather ill, and he swiftly found himself kneeling, scooping John’s compact form up as if he weighed little to nothing. The man went willingly enough, still muttering even as his fingers twisted into the front of Sherlock’s silken blue robe tightly. Sherlock sat himself on the bed, gently brushing a hand over John’s injuries as if unable to quite believe that they had occurred. Humans bled a lot, he had forgotten what it looked like. Bright red and vivid, it painted John’s tanned skin and tasted like iron under the Water-Spirit’s tongue as he surreptitiously licked at his fingers, curious. The flavour wasn’t unpleasant, but the entire situation was absolutely abhorrent.

It became only more so as John seemed to collect himself just enough to sit up, a determined but dead look in his eye as he leaned forward and upwards. Sherlock, not expecting it and so not moving away in time froze as tear-stained lips found his own. John kissed like his life depended on it, or rather the life of his village. His lips were desperate, warm and wet, and the hint of his tongue traced the plush lower half of Sherlock’s lip before the Water-Spirit came back to himself enough to wrench away. John made a sound in the back of his throat, pained like an animal caught in a trap, bleeding out alone.

“Please… _Please_ don’t take away their water. _Please_ let it rain, I’ll do whatever you want. I promise, I won't fight you.” Sherlock closed his eyes tightly at the words, quite suddenly loathing himself more than anything else in the world. The words he had spoken in haste, in anger hot and vile now seemed like sharpened blades, and they worked beneath his skin and did their best at causing him agony.

The Water-Spirit placed his hand over John’s lips before he could say something else that would damn him further, fingers smoothing over the young man’s cheek and wiping away the tears that were born from exhaustion and a loss of hope.

He didn’t apologise, the words wouldn’t come to his lips if he tried. Instead, his gaze was firm, and his free hand was gentle as he reached to his satchel, pouring from it clear water that clung to his fingers. The hand placed itself over John’s knees, the water seemed to draw bits of porcelain from John’s wounds and causing the young man to hiss in both pain and fascination. John watched in disbelief as his skin began to knit itself back together under the water’s cool influence, and with it exhaustion seeped into his bones, leaving him feel as if he were floating. His head tilted back, and he was no longer crying as he looked up into Sherlock’s features. His expression was hopelessly confused, even as sleep began to claim John like he was being struck with an anvil.

The darkness came to claim him, and as he fell limp in Sherlock’s arms the Water-Spirit’s own eyes closed, ducking his head and feeling a shame that he had not felt in a very long time quake deep within his bones. What had happened this afternoon, it would never happen again. The Water-Spirit made this promise to himself, even as he lay John down on the silken covers, unable to get the image of the Human’s bleeding knees out of his mind even as he stared at the healed limbs before him. John slept on, unaware that he was being watched, unaware that Sherlock was remembering him earlier, shouting and snarling, a terrier taking on a bear and believing victory would be at hand. In a way, he had won, and the matter sat on Sherlock’s shoulders uncomfortably.

He sighed, and the sound was long and drawn out.

John shifted unconsciously in his sleep as the first pattering drum-roll began outside. His mind did not recognise the sound, and so it made sense that he’d shift, sleepily opening his eyes and blearily watching as the window that he faced became blurred, streaked with water. He couldn’t make sense of the image, tired as he was. Yet somehow, he could make sense of the shadowy figure that stood silhouetted in the evening clouds, silently commanding the monsoon that occurred outside. Sherlock’s head was tilted upwards, and his lips were slightly parted in the dark, as if he were caught in the midst of deepest pleasure. His hands spread out beside him, and with the strike of lightning outside he appeared positively luminescent, a ghost.

  
John could feel darkness closing in on him again, but he thought it a nice image to dream. He wondered how his mind could create something so beautiful and painful, even as he tumbled back down into the abyss of his own slumber, safe under the shelter of the man he had no choice but to call his husband.


	10. Dreamwalk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay bonding between Sherlock and John~~ 
> 
> On a side note, I apologise about the slow update speed of all of my fics lately. I've moved back to Canada recently, and so as a result have been working hard trying to get a job/get my life together ^.^'' leaves little room for writing as it turns out. Oh well. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter!

 

_**Dreamwalking (An Excerpt From “Gods and Goddesses and How to know them” Author Unknown)** _

_The art of dreamwalking was originally a gift that only the fae had mastered. However the Moon Goddess grew curious about such abilities, and asked them to teach her in exchange for gifts. She brought elaborate presents to the fae kingdom, bottled starlight and crystal decanters of night, and the queen of the fae was enchanted by them . She agreed to allow the Goddess to learn, and so Lana began to travel within the dreamworld. It is said that over time, many other Gods and Goddesses learned from the Moon how to walk, though the Dreamwalking proved a problem. For it could show images of the present, future and past, but it could not control who came and went. Some spirits became stuck, lost in their dreamscape, and over time began to undergo a terrible change. Nightmares became all that was left, and they could roam between dreams, hungry for any shred of light they might find._

 

 

The water whispered, if one only bothered to listen to its words. Clouds could murmur, thunder roared, and sometimes all of the chatter was so distracting that Sherlock longed to press his hands to his ears, scream that he had heard enough. Yet when it rained, all of the voices seemed to come together in a symphony, the likes of which demanded to be listened to.

 

The Water Spirit now sat upon one of the many elaborate cushions of his chambers, absentmindedly listening to the orchestra of rainfall outside. His blue eyes glowed with power, yet his fingers were gentle as they found themselves reaching up, tucking the curled figure on his bed up more tightly.

John barely stirred, exhausted from his earlier breakdown. The Human’s hands flexed fretfully in his sleep, and a part of Sherlock was taken back to a time when another warmed his bed, so many years ago.

He wondered what John was dreaming of, and hoped that it was not a nightmare in which he played the main villain.

 

****

When John woke it was to a throbbing headache that could only mean he had gone to bed crying. His mouth tasted like sandpaper, and his tongue felt heavy and slow. Groaning, he rubbed his face against silken sheets to banish away the griminess he felt, wondering at how quickly he was becoming used to waking to such a thing.

 

It took a moment for John to remember the events of the night before, but when he did, his eyes couldn’t help but shoot open, sitting up with a juddering breath. Sherlock’s chambers greeted him, wide and spacious and entirely empty. At a glance it was a picture of serenity, gauzy curtains caught in a light breeze from the balcony.

John wasn’t fooled, the air tasted earthy in a way that he didn’t recognise, damp and mossy in a way that he couldn’t quite describe. A faint sound echoed in his ears, and John recognised it for what it was, his eyes widening even as his hands made to throw off the sheets that ensconced him.

Water. Dripping water.

 

The floor was cold under John’s bare feet, but he scarcely cared. He was already padding towards the balcony, tossing aside the curtains and feeling the cold shock of the wooden railing. Wet, his fingers came away with pearly drops of water, more than he could believe. He stared in shock, laughing to himself before bringing his fingers to his lips. John’s eyelids fluttered closed, the water was wet and cool, pure. He cupped his hands, drinking more deeply before reaching his hands up to the water that dripped from the slanted roof above.

 

Distracted as he was, John did not hear the quiet footsteps that padded towards him. In the early morning, Sherlock’s voice was a rumble of thunder. John felt frozen in place, rooted to the spot by it. It threw him off, the sudden and unexpected twist of not nerves, but gratitude that threatened to well up from his chest and make his eyes burn.

He swallowed it tightly.

 

“You slept well?”

Sherlock was wearing one of the shimmering, eye-catching robes he seemed to favour so much, not a curl out of place despite the earliness of the morning. At least, John thought it was early, time was hard to read in the Water-Spirit’s palace. He did his best to seem composed, though he thought perhaps by the careful glances and distance Sherlock put between them that his betrothed didn’t quite believe it. John could feel the Water-Spirit’s hesitance, and the tips of his ears flushed as he remembered last night and what had happened.

 

God, he had _kissed_ Sherlock, hadn’t he. Kissed him like some common whore looking for a way to pay for his people’s water. What was more, it had been _Sherlock_ who had stopped it. John’s stomach twisted, and he felt a sour tang creep onto his tongue. He was only a few days here, and already he was acting just like people wanted him to: weak and utterly dependent, _bridal._

As if sensing the dark direction his thoughts had turned, the Water-Spirit took his silence as permission to continue.

“I thought I might show you around the grounds a bit today, give you a bit of a tour. I imagine you haven’t seen bioluminescent flowers before. Fascinating things-”

“I’m sorry.” John blurted out, cutting off the uncharacteristically nervous monologue before he had even realised what he had done. Instantly he sunk his teeth into his lower lip, afraid that he had offended the Water-Spirit.

 

Sherlock however seemed only relieved that they had managed to steer away from more meaningless drabble, brows lowering in relaxation.

“It’s nothing, truly. Due to the circumstances, I think it’s in everyone’s best interest if we do our best not to be at odds with one another.”  It was almost… sweet. John blinked, wondering if perhaps he had hit his head last night. Then, the other shoe dropped as Sherlock carried blithely on, seemingly oblivious to his betrothed’s mood. “You care about your people, and you’ve quickly proven that when distressed, you tend to find inventive ways to make the lives of people around you difficult.”

 

“You’re positively selfless, you are.” John retorted dryly, rolling his eyes and sighing. Of course it had been too good to be true, to expect Sherlock to do something out of the pure goodness of his heart. If the legends were true, he technically didn’t even _have_ one, and that was a thought that made John shiver uncomfortably, looking to change the topic quickly. Turning away from the balcony, he indulged Sherlock with a small smile. The Water-Spirit blinked at it, seemingly at a loss as to its motives. “C’mon then, show me your flowers.”

Thankfully; after a moment, Sherlock made no protest in striding ahead to lead the way.

 

****

John hadn’t really been outside of Sherlock’s palace, but the Water-Spirit seemed to know the way along the flagstone pathways intimately, barely glancing about as he picked his way ahead. The Water-Spirit was not quiet as he walked, pointing out various points of interest to John along the way much like a guide, long hands gesturing at the various delicate statues and fruit trees.

 

There were many plants, actually. It wa sa fact that rather surprised John, but he supposed he shouldn't have been. Water brought life, and he had never seen so much green in all the world as he walked along. Trees reached overhead, great umbrellas of shade that bore low-hanging fruit, ripe and sweet. They sheltered clinging vines that climbed along gnarled bark, wide-leafed and deep green. Sweet-smelling flowers bloomed amidst soft moss along the stone pathway, crimson like beating hearts, white as snow.

“That one is a Fireblossom, and that one a Maidenskirt.” Sherlock listed each dutifully, the verdigris of his eyes reflected by the forest. “The Fireblossoms are good for indigestion, and when you make a poultice out of Maidenskirt it can stave off warts.” John listened to the veritable wealth of information the man seemed to hold about various fauna, noting with some amusement that Sherlock’s expression was actually keen, _interested._ It was clear that the Water-Spirit had a thirst for knowledge, one that he _wanted_ to share with others.

 

It was without thinking that John found himself breathing out hushed words of praise at each tidbit of fact that Sherlock shared with him, completely entranced by the Water-Spirit’s litany of information. If Sherlock noticed, he didn’t comment, though John thought he saw the Water-Spirit flush in pleased surprise the first time he muttered _“Brilliant.”_

They passed the morning in a sort of companionable chatter, and though the conversation was rather one-sided, John rather showed his hand by how relaxed he was over the whole thing.

 

It was not until Sherlock came to point out one tree in particular that John remembered just where he was. The bark that Sherlock rested his hand upon was as gnarled and grooved as an old man’s skin, and the leaves the tree boasted were a curious, metallic silver. Looking at it, John was certain that no tree of its kind likely grew on Earth, certainly at least nowhere near his home. The fruit that hung above their heads and that littered the forest floor was a deeply flushed pink. Like a peach, it was round and spongy to the touch as the Water-Spirit passed one to him for examination.

 

“Veritum Fruit.” Sherlock murmured, still lost in the fast-paced explanations he seemed to favour. Pale fingers twitched over John’s smaller, tanned ones. “The chemical properties of the fruit create a relaxant of the mind, and its juice can be concentrated to make a truth serum. It’s also been used as a sleeping draught to give vivid and bewildering dreams.”

Sherlock carefully and precisely pointed out the noticeable leaf attached to the fruit’s stem, blue eyes meeting John’s own. “There will be many different kinds of food at my mother’s celebration, both of your world and not. As my bride to be, it’s important you don’t accidentally eat something that might harm you.”

 

John felt the lightness in his chest sink like a stone at the words. Of course that was what this was about. Not an attempt at an apology or a new start, but a learning experience for him. He wasn’t sure why that sat ill with him, but something must have crossed his expression, because Sherlock pressed his lips together into a thin white line. He seemed strangely childish to John, in the way he glared in sudden and fierce disgust as the fruit in his hands, as if were to blame for the change of mood.

 

“You’re going to have to learn.”

He murmured, and it was not accusatory, merely defeatist. It was clear to John that Sherlock was just as, if not more unhappy with the whole marriage situation as he was. In fact, the Water-Spirit seemed to view John as something like an unwanted pet, and the fact made the young man’s ears burn in sudden shame.

He was being stupid.

“I know… I _know_ that. I just… it’s all happening so fast. Water-Spirits, mermaids… I feel half the time as if I’m in a dream. Or a fairytale.” John confessed, shaking his head. He stared at the rounded fruit in Sherlock’s hands, wondering what he might see if he bit into its sweet skin. “I keep waking up, and expecting to be back home, at my family’s farm. I keep expecting to hear Harry shouting, or Mary to knock at my door.”

 

John laughed then, the idea of a girlfriend now so far away. He was _owned_ now, someone else’s property. Worse, he was not even _useful_ to Sherlock, a burden. He was all but a _trophy_ now, some sort of piece of eye-candy.

“I feel useless.” He whispered, and might have continued if it hadn’t been for the hand that settled upon his shoulder, silencing his tirade.

 

Sherlock’s gaze was measured as he made sure that John was paying him attention. The Human’s eyes widened as he saw Sherlock bring the fruit to his lips, biting into the fruit so that it crunched with a clear, crisp sound. John watched as the Water-Spirit chewed thoughtfully, bowed lips stained purple-pink by the fruit’s juice. When he swallowed, John felt something peculiar shudder through his body, there then gone.

 

“It’s ironic, for one of my kind to walk in dreams is a normal mode of transportation. Yet Humans place such firm walls between their dreaming and wakeful state.”

Sherlock murmured, even as leaned into John’s personal space. He held up the fruit between them, yet even so John’s eyes flickered to the Water-Spirit’s lips apprehensively. If Sherlock noticed, he pretended not to. Instead he explained, quick low. “I cannot let your physical form leave my palace, not before the wedding. There are ancient laws and traditions that unfortunately, people get tetchy if you don’t uphold. However, if you are amenable, I can guide your dream-self. You can visit your family, your village there.”

 

John breathed deeply, comprehension flooding his expression. To see Harry, his mother and father again… it brought him a plethora of mixed feelings. On the one hand, he yearned for something familiar to attach himself to in this strange, new world. On the other hand, they had been the ones to sign his marriage certificate in Earthly witness.

 

His voice was small, as if he was afraid that if he said the wrong thing, the offer might be taken away.

“Why are you doing this? Why are you being… so…” He trailed off uncomfortably, unwilling to admit that Sherlock’s previous welcome had been less than warm. The Water-Spirit by way of answer pressed the fruit to John’s lips.

Somehow, John felt he understood anyway. Taking the Veritum Fruit in his own hands, John bit into the flesh of the fruit. A sickly-sweet explosion of flavour erupted on his tongue, and the juice ran down his throat, purple-pink and sugary.

 

Sherlock threaded his fingers into John’s hand, and his voice next to his ear was almost a kiss.

“No matter what you happens, you mustn't let go of my hand.” John opened his mouth to ask why, but the words felt heavy and slow in his throat. It seemed like between one blinking second and the next, the world he knew was pitched forward, tilted so he had no choice but to slide. Slide John did, down into blackness thick and impenetrable. Only the sturdy warmth of the hand looped in his own kept John from screaming in surprise. Together, he and Sherlock tumbled, deep into a dream world, and deeper still into John’s mind.

 

****

It was not an entirely unselfish offer, on Sherlock’s part.

The Water-Spirit knew from the beginning that to do this in many ways, was an act of self-satisfaction. Sherlock had never dealt well with the unknown, and John was in many ways a massive variable that he found himself pulled towards, again and again like a magnet.

 

Given the opportunity to slip into John’s subconscious was an offer quite simply too good to refuse, and the added bonus of alleviating some of the Human’s loneliness and worry was only honey to sweeten the pot. Sherlock had slipped into John’s dreamland with the ease of a fish, swimming along the blue-gold lines of thought while all the while holding onto John’s hand, ensuring he didn’t fall too far behind.

What a sight it was.

 

Humans only visited their dreams in sleep, and yet Sherlock was always struck by how vibrant and colourful their imagination could be. Even John, who was in many ways a very practical person, seemed to dream in vivid technicolour and sound. Sherlock was assaulted by a barrage of senses, smells of earth and hearth and home. He blinked and saw in it a wave of John’s childhood, a reckless sister whom he felt responsible for and a father that worked too hard. He saw a mother that fed her children the water that had been pulled from the trunks of arid trees or imported from afar, sickly in colour. He could taste it on his tongue, and it tasted to him like moss and filth.

 

Everything tasted like desert, in John’s dreams. Sand and dust was how Sherlock’s betrothed had grown up, all he had known. It was a village that Sherlock had only glimpsed at from time to time, and yet now he saw it for what it was- a dustbowl.

Yet he could not linger upon the consequences of his actions for too long, because John’s subconscious was already forging ahead, tugging him forward into the present in which they came like shades onto an entirely different scene.

Sherlock opened his eyes to find John standing beside him, both of their eyes wide as they took in the village that only a night before had experienced rain for the first time in years. It was a sight to behold, and one that even the Water-Spirit had to admit, was rather spectacular.

 

Reichenbach had exploded into a world of colour, everyone and everything dressed in the colourful robes that only meant celebration. Children ran past with ribbons woven into their hair, carrying painted masks with the swirling designs of Sherlock’s regalia.

They must have been standing in the town square, but to Sherlock it was like seeing an entirely new scene. The villagers he had witnessed on the eve of John’s christening had been a solemn, frightened group of individuals, all of them ragged and thin despite the fine clothes they had worn (And saved for celebrations to come). Now, they carried buckets of water collected from puddles in the road and from the river, which for the first time in a century had flooded.

 

There was a song they sang in the air, and as if sensing he didn’t recognise it, John spoke in breathless wonder and surprise.

“It’s a wedding song.” He murmured, and it was true that if he listened, Sherlock could make out some of the blessings written into the lyrics.

 

_The water came with love this day,_

_The water came it rained._

_To bless the bride and bless the God_

_That cast the sun away._

 

“They’re celebrating our marriage.” John’s voice to Sherlock’s surprise wasn’t really upset at this notion, at least not as upset as it might have once been. Instead, the Water-Spirit found that the hand grasped in his own tightened, and John’s blue eyes seemed to shine brighter than they would normally as he took a deep, steadying breath.

He turned to Sherlock, and in many ways seemed so young as he laughed a little to himself before admitting

“I never really thought about… well. I never thought you’d actually… There’s so much _water.”_

The Water-Spirit curled his fingers a little bit more firmly over his stunned fiance’s own.

 

To John, it felt like a supportive grip. He might have been swayed just a little, well _a lot,_ so it made sense. He felt as if he might start crying, if he wasn’t half sure it would make Sherlock look at him as if he were rather pathetic. Looking at all the water his villagers were drinking, dancing in, and collecting, John for the first time wondered if this marriage, this entire ordeal, might be worth it.

 

He opened his mouth to voice such a thought, daring to utter it aloud.

Instead, his voice was very suddenly drowned out by a howl that made the very marrow in his bones shudder. John turned as if in slow motion, trying to find the source of the noise. It was to hear his sister of all people let out a terrible scream, and Sherlock utter out a sudden snarl of surprise and fury.

 _“This is not your territory.”_   


	11. Wolf Whispers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> boy howdy it's been a while since I updated this. 
> 
> For everyone (if there's still anyone) following this, I am sorry. I hope you enjoy.

 

_**The Woman's Betrayal (An Excerpt From “Gods and Goddesses and How to know them” Author Unknown)** _

_One day, a wolf came to the woman that **Sherlock** so loved. She met him at the edges of the woods, his gold eyes catching her attention. The wolf spoke, and because she was a curious woman, she was intrigued. The wolf whispered to the woman promises, gifts of treasures and gold and knowledge. His voice was sweet like honey, and he had cast a spell so that all that heard it would be lured in by its sound. The woman became hopelessly enamoured, leaving the safety of her village to follow the wolf into the forest. She forgot even that she'd promised to meet the Water-God. She forgot the rule of her village, to never wander the forest after dark. For things lived in the darkness, creatures that hungered for flesh and uttered words that were beautiful lies.The woods and the wolf swallowed her, and  **Sherlock** came to realise the cost of giving one's heart away: It could so easily be broken. _

 

 

John had only ever seen a wolf once before in his life. Sometimes, they got lost in the desert, coming far away from greener lands. The hot sun would disorient them, and the lack of water or food would soon cause the animal to become delirious and heat exhausted. The wolf John had seen had been a starving thing, already too weak to fend for itself. His father had taken his gun and shot it, unable to risk it stealing precious livestock.

 

This was not the same creature that stood before them. For starters, the wolf stood as tall as him at the shoulders, heavy ropes of muscle quivering with adrenaline. Its pelt was jet black, making the lanterns of its eyes glow hotly. Its right eye was marred by a deep-running scar, a gash of silver and pink. This alone was horrifying enough, but John felt his blood turn to ice as the wolf’s muzzle seemed to contort itself into a warped grin. A noise came from it, human laughter with an undercurrent of growling. The hair on the back of John’s neck stood on end. He clutched Sherlock’s hand tightly. Sherlock’s face was icy as he regarded the creature, a dangerous energy crackling through the sky. Thunder.

 

“This is not your territory.” The god repeated, his voice hard. The voice that came from the wolf was male, but deeper than any human's. John felt his pulse thud dully in his ears, everything inside of him screaming at the unnatural quality of it.

 

“Sherlock Holmes,” The wolf crooned, his keen face tilting in greeting. “It has been so long.” Sherlock didn’t reply, instead tugging John’s arm so that he was tucked more firmly behind him. John didn’t object, able to recognise when he was out of his depth. He peeked out from behind the edge of Sherlock’s robes, curious in spite of his fear. This movement caught the wolf’s attention, and lamp-like eyes fixed themselves on him. John resisted the urge to flinch back. “What’s that you have there? A little pet?” The wolf grinned its strange smile, mocking. His ears flicked towards John, interested. “Hello, small snack. Afraid of the big bad wolf?”

John didn’t answer, but he silently had to admit that yes, he was afraid. He was unnerved by the calculating way the wolf looked through him, and the way the creature’s jaws were pooling with drool, hungry.

 

“This is not your territory, Moran. If you have no other business, leave, or I’ll make you.” Sherlock cut the wolf off, drawing attention away from John. The wolf jerked its gaze back towards the Water-Spirit, its ears flicking back in irritation.

“Oh, but I _do_ have business. In fact, you are just the one my Master instructed me to go see.” Moran lifted his muzzle, his cruel grin still fixed on his face. It sobered with his words, threat lying thick in his voice. “Moriarty is requesting an invitation to the Moon Ball.”

“I believe that is an invitation only my mother can give.” Sherlock replied. Moran’s hackles stiffened, though he kept a safe distance. It was clear he had an idea of just what Sherlock could do. John noticed that around them, the dream of his village had begun to dim. The faces he had known all of his life were becoming blurred, blackened. Like a painting being set on fire, the image was crumbling.

“Yes, well, you know how your father feels about our kind. We were hoping you might pass the message along.”

“And why would I do such a thing?” Sherlock asked.

“Because you know what my Master is capable of, when he feels left out.” The wolf growled. His gaze flicked once more to John, to their interlocked hand. A cunning expression leered on his features. “Or are you not as attached to this one?” He licked his lips hungrily “Because if so, I haven’t had a human in a millennium.”

 

John felt a stab of panic, but it didn’t have time to get far. He jumped as a blaze of lightning pierced the sky, striking the ground in a blinding flash of light a few feet from them. Moran leapt in the air, snarling and howling. The howling turned into maniacal laughter as the wolf turned and ran, loping off into the distance of the dream. He left a trail of blackened earth, as if scorched by his presence. Sherlock didn’t let John away from his side until he was sure the wolf was gone. When he had disappeared, the relief was palpable. Sherlock slumped, turning to John and wordlessly dragging him away from the encounter. John didn’t argue, sensing the urgency in Sherlock’s posture. His mouth was filled with questions, but he swallowed them back. He didn’t think he’d be getting an answer.

 

Around them, the dregs of the dream had begun to fade completely. The people were no more than ideas, sketches and concepts of houses surrounding them. John felt like he could reach up and touch them, and they’d dissolve like smoke. The longing he felt for his family, for his village and its people left a tightness in his throat.

It had been such a good beginning, too.

They came out of the dream together, slowly and without John’s noticing. One moment he was back in Recheinbach, the next he found himself once again amidst Sherlock’s gardens. Time had passed, the sun sinking low on the horizon and the day-flowers beginning to close. John had little time to take it in.

 

Sherlock was still holding onto his hand, and he used it now to bodily tug John back towards the palace. The god’s jaw was set like stone. There was something simmering just under the surface of his expression, and John nervously thought that it had something to do with the storm clouds rolling in on the horizon. They were slate-black. John had the sinking feeling that whatever modicum of freedom he’d managed to earn; he was about to lose.

He got tired of having his elbow yanked out of its socket, John soon dug his heels into the stone ground, forcing Sherlock to jerk to a halt. He spun to glare at John, his blue eyes illuminated by a crack of lightning. John forced himself to stand his ground, because there was no way he was going to be trapped in his damn room again.

“Who was that back there? The wolf, I mean.”

 

It was clear that Sherlock was considering ignoring him. He’d let go of John’s arm, but his hands were still flexing at his sides restlessly. There was an edge of mania in his posture, something vaguely unhinged. His voice was cold, colder than it had been in a few days.

“You’re to return to your room.”

“What?” John felt his anger rise at being ordered. His spine straightened, a dangerous expression crossing his features.

 _“You’re to return to you room!”_ Sherlock snapped, his voice reinforced by a clap of thunder. If John hadn’t seen it been done before, it would have been intimidating. Now, it only made his anger spike.

 

“How about you go to hell!” John spat, forgetting his place in a moment in favour of his temper. Sherlock blinked, his mouth falling open. John didn’t give him a chance to say anything else, stepping forward so that he was in Sherlock’s space. He was shorter, but it was clear Sherlock hadn’t been challenged in a long time. The Spirit lurched back as if he was scared of being burned. “Now you listen here! Every time I think you’re about to become someone actually _decent_ you turn around and pull this kind of shit. Well, I’ve had it! I’m _not_ some kind of doll you can just shout abuse at when you’re angry or hide away when you feel threatened!” That part was good, the last part that fell out of his mouth, wasn’t. “Here I was, finally seeing something _human_ in you, and you do _this.”_ He knew it was an unfair statement.

 

Sherlock _wasn’t_ human. He never would be. John in that moment felt at once in terrible control, and like a bully for making the Water-Spirit before him look so defeated.

 

John exhaled hard, more a physical heave than sound. With some effort, he reigned in his temper. Sherlock stood before him, a hard statue with an unreadable expression. John couldn’t look at his blank face for too long without wanting to punch it. It was how he knew he was in some ways being irrational. He needed to get away, to cool down and find some answers from someone more willing to talk. Molly, maybe. John squashed down the tiny voice that wished the thrice-damned spirit before him would give answers, it was a lost cause.

“Talk to me when you’re ready to stop acting like you’re made of stone.”

 

Sherlock gave him an out. His voice was hard, and yet strangely brittle. His shoulders hunched, making him look smaller than he was. The thunder had stopped, turning instead to rain. It was cold on John’s face.

“I…did not realise you felt that way. It appears I have… overstepped my authority.” The words sat awkwardly between them, sincere but wrong coming from Sherlock’s lips. John refused to feel sorry. He refused to feel anything. Sherlock seemed to be looking right through him, lost in some memory. He made as if to move, ignoring John’s offended cry as he pushed past him abruptly.

 

“Sherlock-”

“John,” The Water-Spirit interrupted. “I am a creature of lightning and thunder, an elemental. Please understand,” His voice was unnaturally calm “I am not avoiding the conflict. I am _walking away_ so I do not do something that will damage my palace, and you in it.” John fell silent, realising that though the thunder had dissipated, the clouds had not. They were amalgamating around Sherlock in fact, above his head in a black wreath that sat like a weight. They came down, encircling Sherlock, lifting him into the air.

 

John watched helplessly as the spirit left, his anger doused. He had the sudden thought that Sherlock could go where he pleased, could _leave_ whenever he chose. What was time to a God? Would Sherlock go, seeing a few years as a blink of an eye? He could leave John behind whenever he chose, in a cold palace with few friends, and fewer distractions to keep him busy.

It was terrifying. John hated himself for how terrifying it _was_ to him. He found words coming to his lips, and found he didn’t care how needy they sounded. He’d had a long day, and no one but Sherlock was around to hear him.

“Promise me,” He shouted. Sherlock gave no indication of hearing him, but John continued anyway. “Promise me you’ll come back!”

 

John was almost convinced he was too far away. The clouds were beginning to become part of Sherlock, the Spirit dissolving into rain and lightning. John felt the water on his skin, soaking his hair and his robes. His heart was thundering inside of his chest.

A voice whispered in his ear, so soft that it was scarcely heard.

_“I will come back to you. This, is my vow.”_

He clung to it, because wretchedly, it was all he could do.

 

****

_Promise me you’ll come back._

Sherlock wished those words didn’t cut the way they did. Against his will they dug into his skin, latched like cruel hooks, and reminded him of someone he wished to forget. In the clouds he floated amidst the rain, following by instinct the path to his most secret hiding place. It wasn’t far, but not even Mycroft knew where it lay. For such ill memories, it served him right to have to suffer in the place where they echoed the most.

 

He landed a few feet away from the fountain, his bare feet brushing cold stone. It babbled noisily, the only sound in a surrounding that not even birds dared to linger for too long. Sherlock approached the fountain, the words he so often uttered already on his lips.

“Show me.” He implored at the fountain, crouching towards the basin. The stone woman stood above him, her outstretched arms now seeming to act like claws reaching for him. The water rippled, shuddered. Sherlock stared at it hard, momentarily thrown. He watched as slowly, painfully, revealed the image of blonde hair, blue eyes that look habitually tired and worried. The crooked smile that flashed up at him made Sherlock’s lip curl into a snarl.

 

 _“No!_ That’s not what I wanted to be shown!” The Spirit dashed the water, destroying John’s face looking back at him. Sherlock glared up at the stone statue, his blue eyes flickering as the storm around him shuddered with his anger. _“Show me!”_ Again, the fountain’s surface shivered, and again, it painfully revealed John. Sherlock let loose an inarticulate cry of rage, throwing his hands up in the air. Lightning was called down, sizzling to its mark: A copse of trees surrounding them. They were struck, the ear-splitting sound of shattering wood shaking the forest.

 

Sherlock gripped the stone basin, sinking to his knees. One hand came to tear through his hair, scarcely unable to contain another cry of fury. He curled up against the fountain, strangely childlike as he pressed his forehead to his knees. Memories consumed him, dark and terrible and edged with pain. Seeing Moran had brought them to the surface, tearing into him more effectively than any teeth could.

_Promise me you’ll come back._

Again, he had promised. Stupidly, _foolishly,_ he’d promised. Despite having no _heart_ to vow with, he’d said those words. He pressed his hand to his chest, where no pulse drummed. What good was sacrificing such a thing, when inconvenient feelings still somehow managed to dig their way into him, tormenting him? In Sherlock’s mind, he saw Moran’s hungry gaze at John, saw it in the memory of Irene’s crumpled body, surrounded in a halo of blood that had fallen into this very fountain, the place where they had first met.

 _You couldn’t protect her, not even with your heart._ A vicious voice spoke inside of him. _What makes you think this time will be any different?_

“It has to be.” Sherlock murmured aloud. It didn’t sound particularly convincing. The stone statue above him seemed mocking, a physical manifestation of all the Spirit had lost. Not for the first time, Sherlock felt an urge to rend it to ashes. He wouldn’t, and couldn’t. It didn’t mean that his hands didn’t still shake, and that the sky didn’t sound as if it were splitting itself apart with his rage. _“Moriarty.”_ Sherlock hissed, and this time instead of despair, his voice shook with rage. He screamed the name to the sky, a howl of his own fury, his inability. He couldn’t protect John, couldn’t even hope to _befriend_ him. Everything he did always ended in failure. He hadn’t been able to protect Irene, hadn’t been able to even gain her trust, in the end. To the humans, he was repulsive. To Gods, he was  _strange._ Too caring, not caring enough. It felt like he was always walking on a perilous cliff edge. 

 

It was as his mother had said, all those years ago when Moriarty’s curse had first been struck upon him. He didn’t deserve the title of God, if he couldn’t defend it.

The forest started to burn, even despite the rain. Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to care. After all, _he_ couldn’t die.


End file.
